The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five
by SharKohen
Summary: The 74th Hunger Games has changed Panem forever. The populace is restless. The Capitol is uneasy. The rebellion is growing. District 13 only awaits the opportune moment to strike. It's time for the Snow Queen to take the stage, but she's not the only one. The Guardians are coming. Hunger Games Mockingjay/ ROTBFD AU, with other Disney Dreamworks. Sequel to The Odds of Five.
1. Prologue: Reawakening

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Prologue: Reawakening

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 **THIS IS SEQUEL TO** _ **THE GUARDIANS GAMES: THE ODDS OF FIVE.**_

 **WARNING: I'm not going to stop you from reading this without the first story, but it should be noted that this story will have huge spoilers to the first part and in full honesty, the first part would probably beat this edition. Oh yeah, if you read this without reading the first story, you probably won't understand some of the things that happen.**

 **WARNING AGAIN: IF YOU HAVE READ** _ **THE GUARDIANS GAMES: THE ODDS OF FIVE,**_ **PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU'VE READ 'THE SECRET CHAPTER'. This chapter is absolutely essential to this story, so you must read it first! If you don't know what I'm talking about, go back to THE ODDS OF FIVE and read through the last post very, very carefully until you find it. IT'S A MUST!**

 **If you have read The ODDS OF FIVE and 'THE SECRET CHAPTER', then feel free to proceed.**

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 _The world had been in a great state of disorder. The country once known as America suffered many a catastrophic event – earthquakes, volcanos, hurricanes, blizzards. People were afraid, aimless and wandering. Without laws to hold society in check, the fear turned to violence, and violence to suffering. The innocent were trampled under the boots of the wicked, fires burnt people in their homes and there was no sound sleep to be had by the weeping children. In a world so divided, so confused and so distraught, only one man could unite the people to together. On these crumbling stones, he founded a new city – a city, he said, where all could eat and drink freely. This vision of a nation he called 'Panem', for it would be the bread of life. This vision came to be, and he was its first President._

 _With his faithful band of comrades, he gave new hope to the hopeless, teaching them to fend for themselves and providing them with homes. A system of sharing was established to increase the efficiency of growth for all. So each of the thirteen districts was assigned with a specific economic focus, giving them room to gain expertise in that area._

 _District 1 produced the aesthetic products - beautiful things that would enrich our lives. District 2 worked with stone, from which our buildings could be made. District 3 pushed the frontiers of science, creating the technology to better our lives. District 4 brought to tables the bounty of the sea. District 5 worked with power plants, generating the energy for all to share. District 6 created vehicles and roads all over our great nation. District 7 worked with lumber, giving wood to keep our home warm. District 8 specialized in textiles, clothing our people. District 9 gave us the grain for our daily bread. District 10 reared livestocks, adding the much needed flavor into meals. District 11 grew many bountiful orchards, bringing to us sweet fruit and vegetables. District 12 mined hard day and knight for coal needed to fuel the machines we used. District 13 worked with graphite, granting us the ability to make many useful tools._

 _The Capitol was built to be the ruling home of the President and his comrades and it became the Horn of Plenty from which riches flowed, bringing peace and prosperity to the districts._

 _In time, however, the President grew old and sick. Before he passed away, he gathered together his closest council – four great men that he had taken under his charge. Amongst them, he divided the districts, trusting that united they would work together, bringing Panem further than he could have ever done._

 _Little did he know that among the four, one of them had grown too prideful and ambitious. He resented his brothers and felt that he was more worthy of leadership compared to the rest of them. After the President had passed on, this vicious tyrant declared himself the sole successor, demanding that the others submit to him. They refused, naturally, for they were far-sighted and wise. Such a move would lead to more destruction than peace, so they tried to reason with him. But his lust for power and his arrogance in his strength created a schism between the brothers, leading to the terrible time known as the Great War._

 _The usurper led the Districts loyal to him against the Capitol, mustering an army of his own to match the Peacekeepers. They stirred up conflict in every District they invaded, spreading uneasiness and distrust amongst the people. Some spoke valiantly against these lies about the Capitol and they suffered at the hands of the rebels for their loyalty. Even the three remaining brothers found quarrel with one another, dissolving the united front they had put up initially and undoing the work of Panem's founders._

 _The war only came to an end when the rebellion stronghold, District 13, was destroyed with chemical bombs sent by our brave soldiers. No rebel survived the blast, and even any who dared to linger near the district soon die with radiation sickness. District 13 became the barren district and serves till today as a reminder of those days._

 _Peace returned to Panem, but at great cost. With no desire for the war to ever occur again, the only surviving of the four brothers took it upon himself to rebuild the nation once more. It was for the love of his nation that he passed stringent laws and harsh punishments, so that the Districts would never again betray the Capitol._

 _Since then, the sovereignty of our nation has never been threatened by any form of insurgence. For The Hunger Games, merciful reminder that the Capitol has granted us, taught our children and our children's children the price of the rebellion. Never again will we face such horrors as long as we obey, as loyal subjects should._

 _Panem Today. Panem Tomorrow. Panem Forever._

* * *

There were faces in the dark; gleaming white outlines of twisted grins and bloodied teeth. There were haughty sneers and cruel snides. There was fire surrounding him, its flames gleefully dancing to the thudding of his heart, eating into his bones. He remembered a searing blaze running up one of his legs, chewing deep into the flesh. His lips parted to scream, but he could make no sound. He remembered that he would crane his neck up, watching an emotionless face glare down. He remembered a surge of fear striking his chest and a horrific screech blaring in his ear drums.

And he woke up, shaking like a leaf.

His arms felt stiff, frozen even, and rolling them back into natural mobility was done with much difficulty. He subconsciously noted that there were thin, wire-like tubes strapped to him, though he had no idea what they were for. Parting his eyelids were more difficult then he imagine, for it seemed as if he hadn't done the action for ages. He lifted his fingers towards his face, navigating his hand through the tubes as he did. After scratching the accumulated grime between the lids, he was finally able to open his eyes fully, and closed them almost instantly to protect his pupils from the white glare.

Hiccup – for he just remembered that he did possess such a ridiculous name – dared to let out a peep, grimacing as the light bit into his corneas. But with time and careful experimenting, the sting lessened. The flare of white now turned to a mere glow of white and he could make out the rows of boxes that decorated the wall.

Correction, _ceiling_. He was lying down on a bed, so he staring at the ceiling.

Three distinct problems that began to bother Hiccup right now, churning within the insides of his stomach like three-week old yak gravy. One, he didn't remember falling asleep; two, this wasn't District 2.

The third one escaped him for some reason.

Gingerly, he tried pushing himself off the bed, only to fall flat back. His arms were still weak and shaky, and his spinal cord wasn't exactly cooperating at the moment. Sucking in a breath, he attempted this feat again, only to let out a yelp of despair as he flopped down on the mattress once again. For some reason, he felt a jab of pain running up his left leg as he did that, making him cry out through clenched teeth.

Immediately after that, Hiccup noted that he was not the only source of noise in the room. Indeed, there was this strange hissing sound coming from the right side of his bed. He shifted his body towards it, craning his neck that way to peer through the white rails. Out of nowhere, he realized that a balloon was inflating right before his eyes, made of a yellowish white rubber that almost camouflaged it into the white walls of the room. As the balloon grew larger in size, swelling to the height of a human at least, Hiccup noted his mistake. This was no balloon at all, but a balloon-like robot. Its body was like a giant marshmallow, with each of limbs rounded and smooth. Its head was like a flattened piece of dough set on top of the balloon body, and all of that it had as a face was a pair of dots joined by a single black line. These two dots blinked at him, making him gawk in bewilderment.

The robot blinked at him once more, then shifted itself forward, nearer his bed. It craned its neck down towards him, then raised one of his inflated arms, revealing a remarkable set of balloon-like fingers. With palm, it drew an invisible circle in th air and mouthless robot greeted him, _"Hello. I am Baymax, your personal healthcare companion."_

Hiccup raised a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes quickly, hoping to awaken himself from this bizzare dream. But no matter how many times he did this, the black circular eyes continued to stare down at him.

" _I was alerted by a sound of distress,"_ Baymax continued its politely monotone voice. _"What seems to be the problem?"_

Swallowing, Hiccup debated internally whether he should answer the question or whether he should keep silent and hope it'll go away. But staring didn't seem to go anywhere, so he wheezed out, "I-"

He coughed. His throat felt as if it had closed in on itself. He coughed again, his ribs jerking up sharply and that strange sensation on his leg being magnified along with it.

Then he realized what had been bothering him all along.

With a sudden burst of strength, Hiccup pushed himself off the sheet. He barely managed to keep himself from falling back this time, but he purposely leaned himself forward. He could see the needles stuck into his wrists and elbows, and a catheter hooked to the railing. While these usually would gross him out, he was too caught up in finding out something else. Grabbing hold of the blankets, he yanked them aside, feeling a rush of cold spilling over his lower limbs as he did.

Correction. Lower _limb_.

Under the flimsy blue fabric that just protected his modesty, one end of the pants abruptly ended where the left limb also did – just below the knee joint.

The first attack was disbelief. It couldn't be true. It had to be some terrible dream. But as he ran his hands down the dismembered limb, he knew that it was undoubtedly through. The limb had a stub at its end now, healed and sealed with a layer of healthy skin, but it didn't change the fact that his number toes and ankles had been abruptly halved.

The second attack was panic. Hiccup didn't know when his breath rate had accelerated, or when his vision started going haywire, or why his ribs hurt so much, but these did in did happen and he had no idea if he should throw up or scream.

" _Your heart rate has accelerated rapidly. Please take slow and controlled breaths,"_ the robot advised in a completely calm manner.

He didn't pay attention. Why should he? He had lost a leg - well, technically, it's just a calf. But the problem was that he _had_ lost a calf. An entire part of his body.

Forever.

" _On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate your pain?"_

He didn't answer. In a matter of fact, he didn't care about the dronings of the robot, for something just as alarming as a missing limb had just occurred to him.

"Toothless," he was barely able to gasp. He scanned around him, but the blank walls provided no answers. Well, except for that part of the wall which actually had a door. In his hurry to find the black reptile, he propped himself up on the bed, kneeling to crawl of the bed but forgetting his impairment till the last moment. By that time, it was too late. He had already tumbled onto the floor, the wires jabbed under his flesh biting him as a punishment. As he lay on the ground, groaning at his trademark clumsiness and ignorance, he noted that squeaking steps where shuffling their way towards him.

The balloonish robot stopped itself in front of him, cocking its head to a side. Blinking, it informed him casually, _"You have fallen."_

Hiccup peered up at the 'healthcare companion'. Filled with nothing but sheer incredulity, he answered through a cracked voice, "Thank you for summing that up."

" _On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate your pain?"_

"Zer-" he winced as he untangled himself from the wire, accidentally yanking out a couple of them as he did. Just as he was about to shove himself to back to his feet – foot, he felt something scooping him up, one supporting his back and the other hook under his legs. Before he could yelp in shock, he found himself nestled in the surprising strong arms of the marshmallow-like robot.

" _It is okay to cry,"_ Baymax assured him. _"Crying is a natural response to pain."_

"Pain?" The harsh laughter was tearing into his throat. Fumbling, he slipped himself out of the robot's hold, managing by pure luck to land on his good leg. Before he could chance another tumble, he grabbed hold of the bed railings, steadying himself. "I'm not in pain." It was lie, but he couldn't really feel bad about lying to a robot.

Gulping down whatever saliva he could manage, he turned to the robot, asking, "Where's Toothless?" Then pausing a moment in thought, he added, "Where am I?"

"Well, that's one question I can answer." That wasn't the Baymax's voice.

Hiccup spun himself around – and almost stumbled again when he did it too quickly. Somehow in the mess of everything, he hadn't heard the door slide open. He did catch a 'click-and-whirr' as the wheelchair rolled forward, passing through the doorway and stopping just inches before the bed. Hiccup felt something incredibly familiar about the boy seated before him, his wiry arms rested on the sides of the chair. As of now, he couldn't place his name, but the tightening of his chest told him that this lad, who looked just barely his age, was the one responsible for his missing foot.

"Welcome to District 13, Hiccup. You've been here for the last six months," the boy in the wheelchair told him. Giving him a critical look, he added, "You look awful, by the way."

* * *

 **S/N: If you need any hints on who the boy in the wheelchair is…well, then you're hopeless.**

 **Honestly, after what I pulled in 'The Secret Chapter', this shouldn't be a surprise. In a matter of fact, if you read the last bit of the 'Epilogue: Cassiopeia' in The Odds of Five, you would realize that in Elinor's message, she was told that all FIVE survived and she comes to the conclusion that Merida survived (if Calhourn was included in the count – which she wasn't – Elinor wouldn't have come to this conclusion).**

 **FIVE. Not FOUR. That should told you enough.**

 **And that, folks, is how you kill everyone without killing everyone. I cheat a lot. I know. The line to kill me starts after (**peers over computer**) the tissue box down there. Yep.**

 _'_ ** _How he did it'_ will be revealed like somewhere in Chapter 2, but now for the next chapter (which is Chapter 1).**

 **Up Next: Where we find out what happened during the last 6 months, but not in District 13.**

 **And here's an alternative summary for this story. I couldn't post it on the page because it might be a spoiler:**

The archer seeking justice; The cripple who trains mutts; The ice-powered mutant with heavy emotional baggage; The genius seeking peace, or vengeance: and the 'Bad boy' with too much muscle and too little purpose. Presumed dead, they must become symbols of the rebellion. They're broken, but they're our only hope.

 **Yup, that's a wrap.**

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 **A/N: Greetings all! Welcome to the sequel! I'm pretty excited for this. I think.**

 **YES! I'M SUPER EXCITED.** **No, I'm kidding. I'm just...sorta excited? Ish?**

 **Blame 'More Than A Bird'. It's been eating my brains for the last month. That and my job.**

 **I'll try to update at least once a fortnight around weekends. My beta's still MIA, so it's just me doing the checking. I'll do my best to fix up whatever I can.**

 **Review. Critique. Ask Questions.**


	2. Chapter 1: Post-Mortem

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 1: Post-Mortem

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 **District 10**

 **2 months after the end of 74** **th** **Hunger Games**

It was the last day of winter. For many, this would be celebrated with the sharing of drinks and the exchange of jokes. Winter's on the wing, they said, and that meant that the cows would stop getting sick and the chickens would freezing. It meant that less stables and coops needed to be repaired after the beams gave way to the chunks of ice piling on the rooftops. It was meant that like the snow, tensions in the District too would dissolve when the spring came back, washing clean their sins from the eyes of the Capitol.

But while the departure of snow was greeted with joy by most, there was a troubled child who could not quite view it that way.

Now Emma Overland was no foolish child. She had been brought up by a very sensible mother, thus she had enough common sense to know that stories did not equate to realities. Santa Claus did not deliver presents down chimneys, the Easter Bunny didn't have a secret lair of egg-making machines and the Tooth Fairy did not give you quarters in exchange for the teeth you hid under your bed. She knew for a fact that magic didn't exist at all, but that didn't stop her from believing all the same.

Just before the sun dipped itself down the horizon, she would venture out into the snow. This was a task that she had committed herself to since the very beginning of winter. She would be careful to dress warmly in snug woolen gloves and thick woolen stockings – splendid clothes that she hadn't had till her mother had purchased them two months earlier. She always had to take great care when wearing them, for wool was frightfully expensive. You'd think that as sheep-rearers, the District 10 folk might get their own products at a discount. But as they said, the sheep belonged to the Capitol in the first place, so give onto the Capitol what was the Capitol's.

Grateful as was she to have these handy little garments, her prized possession still remained the large brown poncho that sat on her shoulders now. She had not grown that much since we last saw her, so the matted fabric continued to sweep the ground with every step she took. Yet she wore it religiously to the point that she even refused to let her mother wash it, for she did intend to wear it every single day and every moment she could spare. It was as if that ragged thing provided her with covering and safety that nothing else could, and perhaps it was so.

There was a wooden picket fence built around the field and the gate was locked, but Emma, having practiced it so many times by now, scurried up the planks with ease, jumping over the barring and landing on her feet. As usual, the lengthy poncho caught onto the wood splinters, so she yanked on it hard to set it free. Scanning around her, she was relieved to note that no one had found her out yet. With a quick breath in, she pulled the poncho towards her chest, bundling the loose fabric in her arms. Turning about, she darted straight into the forest.

The lonely treks down from the Overland house to her destination were often quiet and eerie. The barren branches of the pines would rustle against each other in the wind and strange sounds would carry themselves over the field. Occasionally, she'd halt in her steps just to glance around and assure herself all was well before resuming her journey. Sometimes, just to drive away her fears, she'd hum a little song to herself. It was never too loud, for she was afraid that the Peacekeepers would catch her.

Ever since those horrid fights that broke out at the square, a strict curfew had been imposed on all workers. More soldiers had been stationed around the whole district, even the outskirts. Walking around here was definitely breaking the rules. She wasn't supposed to be out here so close to evening, certainly not at her age and certainly not for the objectives that she wished to fulfill.

But this was the only time that she could spare. There was always school in the morning, the dreaded routine she might have once found tolerable but now was inexplicably detestable. The afternoon would be when her mother busied her in chores. Right before dinner, her mother would leave the house to deliver back the dry, laundered clothes that she had washed. Washing in winter was horrible, for the cold water was unkind to raw fingers, but Ma insisted that she'd take work and washing was the one thing no one else wanted to do in winter. They didn't earn much from that, but somehow Ma kept the house together. If it wasn't for the scabs on her mother's hands and the harrowed crease over her brow, folks wouldn't have known that the Overland house had lost its breadwinner just two months ago.

Tucking her hands into the fabric of the poncho, the little girl sang breathily and softly,

" _Are you, are you, coming to the tree?-"_

A strong breeze swept her way, spraying snow into her face. No, wait, it wasn't snow. It was just dirt. She coughed, brushing the soil grains from her lips and cheeks with a sleeve. Most of the snow was already starting melt away. She had heard her friends say come tomorrow morning, all of it would evaporate like the morning dew. She hoped that to be untrue, but she wasn't taking any chances.

With a sniff, she continued in a broken, almost tuneless manner,

" _-They strung a man,_

 _they say had murdered three._

 _Strange things did happen here-"_

She heard a strange noise – was that a howl? A shudder attacked her body and she drew the poncho around her tighter, even though something told her it might not be enough. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the chilling sound, she resumed singing the way she knew how to, though she had perhaps forgotten where she had left off,

" _If we met, at midnight,_

 _At the Hanging Tree.-"_

And the rest of it dissolved into a jumbled murmur.

Finally, she did come to a stop at small lake. It was still frozen, but barely. Cracks now marred the shimmering face, and the ice was now more blue in appearance than white. Fortunately, Emma had no intentions of skating today.

The snowman that she had sculpted yesterday was gone, probably buried below another snow drift or melted in the morning sun. But she hadn't complained of this before, so she didn't complain of it now. Quietly and patiently as always, she stooped herself down and gathered as much snow as her small arms could scoop. Of course, the snow was all watery now, and all the bits and pieces kept sloshing together. She dug her hands into the sides of trees and into the trenches of their roots, trying to widdle out some frozen lumps before packing them into a ball of snow. It took some time to smoothen out the cracks and to round out the curves, but she didn't mind doing it. Sometimes, it would make her happy even. That was, until she remembered that she was building these snowmen alone now.

Frosty the 72nd was completed after she had done up three of those snow balls, each smaller than the last and stacked upon one another. She bore two holes in his head to be the eyes and added a twig for the mouth. She added a hole for his nose too, but there was no carrot to put there. Despite all the 'rebelliousness' that her mother had berated her for, Emma knew better than to waste food. Two long, fallen branches were stuck on this snowman's sides, making his bark-covered palms raised towards the sky.

She kneeled in front of the snowman, biting inside of her lip, staring at her handiwork. Frosty the 72nd returned her gaze as coldly as a creature of ice could, the crooked twig of his mouth making his demeanor seem even more unpleasant.

"Well, hello," she greeted him nervously.

The snowman eyed her contemptuously, his pout seeming more downturned than ever.

"I'm really, horribly sorry to keep disturbing you every day," Emma went on, fingering with the wool on her gloves.

Frosty's response was only frosty silence.

Despite the uneasiness she felt in her heart, "But tomorrow's the last day of winter. It won't be next year till I can see you again."

If Frosty could move, she was certain that he would sniff scornfully at her and turn away. How many times had he needed to listen to her silly prattling? How many times had he had to put up with her whiny pleas?

She swallowed, her words coming out shakier than ever. "But please, Frosty, sir, I have to know where he is, and you're the only one I can turn to."

The snowman would have rolled his eyes at her. _'Silly girl!'_ he would exclaim in disgust. _'Your brother's in a wooden box! Six feet under like all the other tributes! You're wasting your time."_

"No!" she almost shouted back, though there was certainly no need. She wrung her hands together, her eyes downcast, yet there was strength in her voice - conviction even. "He's not there. I'm sure of it."

' _Oh?'_ She was glad that she didn't draw him any eyebrows, for she was sure that he would knit them together in sneering fashion. _'Have you looked inside?'_

"N-n-no," she stammered, jerking herself away slightly.

' _Hmm!'_ The snowman snorted. _'Then how would you know?'_

"I-I just do," she answered, though the hesitation was evident. "I feel it. I-I know it."

The snow was quick to catch onto that. _'Wrong! You THINK that you know, but you don't. You just believe what you want.'_

"But isn't believing the most powerful force in the world?" she pleaded, wringing her gloved hands together. The world had been slowly turning darker each second, but she didn't notice. Her eyes were focused on the hollow ones belonging to the crusty snowman.

' _Only if it's true and complete belief!'_ the snowman declared. _'It must be PURE! It must be BRAVE! It must SELFLESS! If not,-'_ the graveness in the snowman's tone increased tenfold _'-it'_ _ll_ _never work!'_

The accented words sent shivers all over Emma's body, her glazing over it all. "I-I'm not very brave," she admitted, staring down at her small, wiry arms, "I'm not that good, but I can try-"

' _Try is not enough!'_ the snowman shouted, making her curl back in fear. _'If you really do believe, then you have to show it.'_

"How then?" she asked, leaning forward eagerly. "What can I do?"

' _How much are you willing to sacrifice? Hmmm? How much are you willing to give up just to find your brother?'_

"Everything," was her immediate reply.

' _Really?'_ The snowman sounded disbelieving. _'Alright then. Give over your gloves. Lay them in front of me.'_

"My gloves?" she repeated in surprise. "But Ma paid so much for them." She peered down at the woolen garments, pressing them to her hands. "And your hands are all wood anyway. You don't need them."

' _I thought so,'_ the snowman spat out the snide _. 'You don't actually believe. You don't DARE to.'_

"No, no, I do believe!" In anxious haste to prove him wrong, she tore off the gloves. Her palms met the chill immediately, but it wasn't as bad as she feared. The sensation surrounding them was more wet than icy. She laid them together in front of Frosty. "There."

' _Alright. Now give me your stockings.'_

"Stockings?" She looked up and down at Frosty's round body. "But you don't have legs."

' _That's because you're such an inconsiderate girl. You never thought of building me any,'_ the snowman grumbled. _'But that doesn't mean I don't need them. Come along. Don't you want to see your brother again?'_

With the drooping of her shoulders, Emma sat herself down on the wet ground, propping both her knees up. Unstrapping her boots, she rolled the stockings down both her shins before carefully folding them together. She was about to slip the footwear back on, but then the snowman said, _'What good are stockings without shoes? Give your boots too.'_

Unwillingly, she took the two boots and laid it before the snowman, alongside the stockings. Her bare heels pressed against the ice and she had to clench her teeth to bear it.

' _Alright,'_ the snowman sounded satisfied with the progress. ' _Now the poncho.'_

Those words made her cling onto the brown cloak frantically. "I can't give this! It's Jack's!"

' _Well, what would you rather have - your brother or his cloak?'_

Her heart was heavy as she slipped the cloak off – the precious cloak that had by this time become of a nest of dirt and grime, but was no less precious. She folded it up and too set it before Frosty the 72nd.

"It's that all?" she queried timidly. Her arms were wrapped tight around her body and her legs were huddled together, all to keep as much of her body heat as possible. All she had left was her skirt, her blouse and her coat, all which she would need for school tomorrow. She wouldn't be able to part with those even if she wanted to.

Fortunately, the snowman made no further demands for her belongings. ' _This will do,'_ he intoned gruffly. Unfortunately, it did not mean the end of the demands altogether. _'Now, gather up your things.'_

She took up the items and stacked them on over the other, the stocking and gloves under the boots, and the poncho tucked on the bottom. These she took up with her two arms.

' _Alright, you see the frozen lake over there?'_

She spun around, grimacing as her toes nudged against a stray twig. Adjusting herself carefully, she peered at the place in question, though perhaps it wasn't as frozen as described. "Yes."

' _b_ _Good. What you need to do bring all of these to centre of that lake and put it down onto the ice.'_

"Onto the ice?" Her eyes widened. She stared at the glassy stone sitting over the water below. The lake was not that large, but it was certainly big enough for Jack and her to skate around it almost every winter. There was no way she could slide the pile of clothes onto the ice and hope that it'd reach the centre of the lake. The only way that she could do it was by walking on the ice.

"But the ice's already starting to break!" she pointed out in alarm, taking an involuntary step away from the lake's shore. Indeed, glaring lines along the glittering face seemed to glow despite the darkness.

' _Then that's it then,'_ Frosty spoke unsympathetically. _'You'll never see your brother again.'_

That was an ending Emma could not accept.

Sucking in a tight breath and sticking her chest out, she moved towards the lake, each step feeling like a dozen needles piercing her uncovered feet. Pressing the bundle of clothes against her chest, she tried to feel brave.

If she thought stepping on snow hurt, stepping on ice was much worse. It felt like walking on burning coal, and she immediately retracted the first foot, teeth chattering furiously. She glanced back at the snowman, who decided at this point not to give any comment, observing her actions with cool disinterest. Heaving her shoulders back and letting loose a misty breath, she tried again. The icy pebbles and the brittle fragments bite into her soles, but with determination beyond her years, she pressed down her other foot. The ice platform below her feet did not break.

Emboldened, she advanced forward, her eyes still glued fiercely at the frosted surface. She tried to walk only the areas that were still an opaque shade of blue, avoiding the fragile glass areas. Her breath misted in front of her face and her uncovered legs wobbled. She tried to steady her shaking arms by gripping hard on the folded clothes in her arms.

It was only twenty steps, but they seemed to drag on forever. Every time she moved, her body was attacked by jitters from cold and nervousness. She always wondered if the ice would give way underneath her the next moment and when it didn't, she let out a breath in relief. When she reached the centre of the lake, she realized that the night had fallen without her noticing and the moon was already up, its perfect circular face gazing down on her. Gingerly, she bent her knees, dropping her bundle on the ice surface. Emma arranged the items neatly in a row; the stocking next to the boots, which were next to the gloves, which was next to the folded poncho. Slowly, she straightened her reddened legs, then spun around. Keeping herself on the balls of her feet, she retraced her steps carefully.

She was halfway to the shore when she heard a crack below her feet. Warily, almost not wanting to look, she glanced down. Sure enough, there was the slightest fracture underneath her left foot and she lifted that foot quickly, only for another 'hiss' to be heard under the right foot, revealing that it too stood over a frosted fissure.

"Oh," she whimpered to herself, gripping her elbows. She scanned the length to be crossed before the shore could be reached. It was a good ten steps, each large strides and on slippery, brittle ground.

Turning her head to the snowman, she called out, "What should I-I do?"

Frosty the 72nd didn't answer.

Emma gulped, eyes glued to the ground. She peered around, hoping that they might be some stray branch for her to grab on, but there was nothing in sight. She raised her head to sky, hoping that the moon might offer some advice, but too it chose to remain silent in her time of needed.

Needless to say that her freezing feet were shaking and following small hisses as the fissures grew made her more frightened than ever. She tried to remember everything her brother had once taught her about breaking ice, but somehow nothing helpful came to mind. All she could think of was getting off the ice.

So she did only what an incredibly foolish and desperate eight year-old would do. She ran.

The heavy pounding of her feet against the ice accelerated the cracking, rising from _'per-plukkk!'_ to _'thaaaaww-waaaacckk!'_ in seconds. The lines on the ice surface spread their branches gleefully, more than ready to rip the crystalline apart.

Emma prayed, oh how she prayed, that she would make it in time. There were only two steps – no, two hops – more. She prepared to throw herself forward, to make one last desperate grab for the shore.

But as fate would have it, she slipped on surface.

When her body collided with the ice, the platform gave way. The shock of cold speared her limbs first, then her chest. Emma groped for anything that could save her, even the sharp shards of ice dancing on the surface. But the dark waters below her were stronger, grabbing hold of her coat and her skirt, dragging her head under the water too. She flailed her arms desperately as the surface disappeared in the distance. The cool liquid rushed into her ears, nose and mouth. They too were stabbing her eyes, so she squeezed them tight together and prayed that she could be somewhere else instead. Her throat and chest started to hurt as bubbles escaped her lips and nostrils. She struggled and writhed.

Then, she stopped.

Everything suddenly went quiet and dark.

There were flashes of images running around her head, mixed with sounds and voices she didn't recognize. She saw a beautiful castle made out of crystal – or was it ice? She saw a snow-line cavern collapsing over her. She saw furious faces and felt sharp stabs in her ribs and chest. She remembered feeling so horribly cold, and feeling so horribly scared. Out of the fuzzy images, there was a recurring image to all of them; the face of a beautiful woman. Sometime she looked kind, other times she looked sad, but there were also some where she looked horrifying angry. At these times, She was cold, haughty, unrelenting and cruel, and her scorn was channeled into the simple glare directed towards her victim.

And Emma woke up with a sharp pain in her chest and water spluttering from her mouth.

"You're alive! Ha-ha! Thank goodness! I was so afraid!"

Emma let herself cough before she opened her eyes. The blurry contours eventually melded back into sharp images and she found herself looking at brilliant violet eyes.

"This is the only second time I've ever saved anyone, would you believe it?" The owner of the purple eyes chattered on enthusiastically. "It's pretty exciting, actually."

Emma, in her dripping wet rags, pushed herself slowly off the ground. The stranger, a bony yet muscular young woman, immediately scuttled over to help the girl. "Steady now. How do you feel?"

A breeze decided to brush them by, sending Emma quaking like a leaf. She entirely soaked through, and sitting on the snow-covered ground didn't help. "Cold."

"You poor dear!" the lady exclaimed in pity. "Of course you must be! Falling into the lake must have been a nasty shock."

The little girl shuddered at the memory, blearily glancing over to the lake. Part of the lake was still frozen, but the part near the shore had its surface ripped apart, leaving nothing but a pool of dark water lapping against the bobbing chunks of ice.

So it hadn't been a bad dream, then. She really did fall through the ice. She had lost her nice clothes, her shoes and Jack's things too, just because some snowman told her too.

"Frosty?" Emma peered around her. The snowman was nowhere in sight. Had he melted already? But the snow under her suggested that this couldn't be true.

After the girl let out a violent sneeze, the lady told her, "Come, we have to go back to home. You'll catch an awful cold at this rate. Wouldn't you like to dry yourself by the fire?"

As nice as a fire sounded in her state, Emma hadn't forgotten her task, "But what about Jack? Frosty told me that if I believed I'll see him again!"

"Well, I don't who this Frosty is, but if he's the one who told you to walk on the ice, I don't think you should talk to him," the lady said disapprovingly, helping the girl gently to her feet. "He sounds like a nasty fellow."

"But what about Jack? Will I see him again?" Emma's voice, so full of hope, also revealed how near she was to the brink of tears.

The lady was kind. She kneeled down, wiping away the stray tear that leaked down the little girl's cheek. "Of course you will, but not tonight." Straightening herself up, she took a business-like tone. "Come then. It's time for you to go home."

Emma shifted uncomfortably, pressing her stiff toes together. "But it's so far and cold. And I have no shoes."

"It's alright. I can fly you there." It was then that Emma realized that the kind lady had a pair of wings – shiny and sparkly like the stain glass that she had seen in shops, but never owned. The lady also didn't have hair. Instead, she had gorgeous feathers of deep green covering her entire body, and crown of yellow and purple feathers over her face.

"Are you a fairy?" the girl whispered, fearing a loud voice would scare this magnificent creature away.

The lady smiled in reply. Then, she nodded.

Emma gasped. All along, she had thought fairies were just in stories, but now…

Well, if there were fairies in the world, then there was certainly a chance that she would see Jack again.

"Now, are you ready?" the fairy asked, holding out a hand. "We should go soon. Your mother must be dreadfully worried."

Emma paused, peering at the lake. She didn't miss losing the shoes, or the stockings, or the gloves, but she really wished that she had never given up the cloak. By now though, all the items would have reached the bottom of lake.

She took the fairy's hand.

Flying was surprisingly easy, since the fairy did all the work. Her strong wings carried them quickly into the sky, basking them in the moonlight as they soared over the trees. Emma would have wowed at the sight if she wasn't so frightfully cold and her head didn't hurt so much. The fingers clinging to the fairy's cool palm felt numb, and Emma felt rather sleepy.

"No, don't!" The sharp tone jerked Emma. The fairy was watching her in alarm as they soared through the clouds. "I know you're tired, but you can't go to sleep. If you do, you won't wake up."

Emma nodded, valiantly trying to keep her eyes open, but a yawn escaped her mouth just as shiver attacked her spine again.

It was fortunate the journey by flight was short and the landing was easy. By then, Emma's clothes had already frozen themselves to her skin and she could barely walk forward. Teeth rattling, she staggered forward, rapping on the door.

It swung open almost immediately and Ma stood there, a fluster of anxiousness. "Emma! Thank God! I thought the Peacekeeper caught you and took you away. The curfew has started and oh -"

Her mother pulled her into the house, into the happy, safe warmth. Emma's feet was thankful step onto that didn't pierce her soles so awfully. "What happened to you? Where are your clothes?" The woman fingered her dripping hair. "Why are you all wet?"

"I-I fell into a lake," she chattered, as her mother led her towards the fireplace, where a welcoming fire danced for her pleasure. "But it's okay. The fairy lady saved me."

"Fairy lady?" Her mother sounded disbelieving as rolled the frost-covered garments of the girl.

Emma made a stiff nod as she pried the soaked shirt of her skin. "She's outside now. Could you let her in? She must be cold too."

Her mother seemed about to say something, but decided instead to go over the doorway of the house instead, peering outside. Then, she closed the door to shut the night breeze out, before returning to the fireplace.

"Didn't she want to come in?" Emma asked in surprise.

Her mother hesitated, then she said slowly, "Emma, dear, there was no one else when I saw you at door, and there was no one when I checked again."

"But-" Emma protested, but this was quickly silenced by her mother laying the back of her hand against her daughter's forehead.

"I think you might be getting a fever," she declared grimly. "Well, you're going to get dried up, young woman, and it's straight to bed for you."

Emma was in no mood to complain, so she handed all the wet clothes over to her mother and took a towel to dry herself. Once Ma fit into her bed clothes, she was sent to her room. Ma followed into the room to tuck her in, making sure that the blankets were thick enough to keep her warm.

"I lost all the nice clothes, Ma," she confessed sadly after she lowered her head to pillow.

Her mother just shook her head. "You are a silly, careless girl, Emma, but I'm just glad you're safe." She kissed her daughter on the forehead, as all mothers do to protect their children from the shadows in the night. "Goodnight, dear, and I hope this would be the end of these adventures for you."

Emma shut her eyes and waited for the click of the door. Her lids then pop back open and she scrambled out of the cover. Her now warmer toes barely like made a patter as she scurried over to the window, pulling back the curtains. The moon, bright and blue, shone through the dirty glass.

"Dear Mister Moon," she spoke in full seriousness with her hands clasped together. "Thank you sending the green fairy to save me. She's very nice, but it's a pity she flew away. Ma would have liked to meet her." Emma scrunched her face up in a frown. "But if you see Frosty, I think you should punish him. He should learn to be as nice as the snowman in the story that Jack told me about."

"Oh, and please,-" she screwed her eyes tight, "-please protect my brother. I don't know where he is, but you do. You probably can see him from where you are. When you find him, tell him that we miss him very much. Tell him to come home."

She sniffed, wiping her dripping nose with the back of her hand.

The moon said nothing to her, but she knew that the moon was very far away and it took a long time for messages to get there and back. So Emma headed back to her bed, snuggling herself under the sheets for the meantime. She told herself that she would stay up to wait for the Moon's answer, and kept herself busy by saying the most magical words she knew. As always though, she fell asleep before the reply arrived, her last dozy utterance being 'I believe, I believe…'

* * *

 **District 2**

 **3 months after the end of 74** **th** **Hunger Games**

When the Hunger Games were first implemented, Victor Villages were constructed in every district. To be the luxurious homes of the triumphant, each bungalow boasted a spacious porch, a plot of land for a garden, and two floors of large, airy rooms. Twelve bungalows were constructed in each district at first, but as the number of victors started climbing in District 2, more homes were hastily constructed to accommodate its growing population. Unlike some districts where this prime land was like a ghost town, the Victor's Village in District 2 was busy bustling pad full of cheerful neighbors.

"Morning, 'strid." A bald man bobbed his head in greeting.

"Good morning," she answered politely before passing him by. She knew his face well. She had studied old videos of how he had used a scimitar to behead his rivals during his year of Games. It was a quick, efficient method of kill that left the slayer plenty of time to launch subsequent attacks on other tributes standing around. On the other hand, he only knew her because she was the most recent Victor to join their merry ranks. In time, he would probably forget her name and existence. There were other victors closer to his age and maturity, so there was no need to chat with the young one.

The blonde girl, who was carrying the bundle of firewood under her arm and an axe on her back, did seem slightly taller than the last time we saw her. Rich foods had strengthened her body, and the strenuous physical regimes she put herself through everyday kept her fit and trim. There was no longer any real need for to do them, her new neighbors had told her often enough, but after training so rigorously for the Games for such a long time, she wasn't prepared to change her habits.

She had truly won the Games. At this point though, her lifetime dream still felt like a dream. Sometimes, when Astrid was alone, she would wonder if all of it - the smell of blood on the grass, the screams of children, the swell of terror in her own heart, the announcement of her victory – was real.

But there was too much evidence to suggest otherwise. She did have a home in the Victor's Village, for one. She was also immensely wealthy, or at least, as wealthy as anyone in District 2 ever needed to be. Her name had been added to the Victor's roster – a bronze plaque at the Career academy listing the names of every District 2 Victor that had ever won. Career Trainees would stop her along the road and beg for instruction. They too desired to be like her – a superstar, a celebrity, a model citizen of Panem. They yearned for the honor of representing the District in the Games.

They had no idea what they were asking for.

With parents and close relatives all dead, the house of Hofferson had only one occupant. The large rooms echoed too loudly of loneliness and the darkness brought up unpleasant recollections, so Astrid strove to keep it walls as populated as possible. She invited her closer peers to use the grounds as often as they pleased, giving them access to every room save her sleeping quarters (she didn't really need to describe what she did to Snotlout when she found him in there, but let's just say he couldn't walk for a while.) This offer was accepted with much enthusiasm, and Astrid was glad to hear the amicable chatter of the youths emerging from the living room as she pushed the front door open, though she would never admit it aloud.

Kicking the door shut with a foot, she followed the sounds down the corridor.

"No way that's happening." That was definitely Snotlout. She could smell his arrogance a mile away.

"Why not?" The drawl belonged to Tuffnut, which meant that the twins were here. While Astrid was thankful for any company in the house, the Thornsten twins were a hit-and-miss acquisition – mostly a miss. They had attempted to set her house on fire too many times for her to fully appreciate them.

When she entered the room, none of them bothered to greet her. There was no offense to be taken in this. After all, they saw each other in the same place so often that formalities were quite unnecessary at this point. So she headed straight over to the fireplace and began stacking the firewood pieces by its side, letting the other youths continue their discussion of decreasing intellect.

"Because people who are smarter get higher ranks," Snotlout told the other boy in a smug tone. "And _I_ am smarter than you."

There was a skeptical sniff from Fishlegs, who had retreated himself to the window-side couch. Out of all the day-residents of her home, he was the most tolerable. For one, he possessed above-average intelligence (which was a precious gift, considering the rest were definitely of below-average intelligence.) Secondly, he had basic common sense – a trait Astrid found to be surprisingly scarce amongst those her age. She used to find his timidness annoying, but for some reason, that no longer bother her.

"You know that that's not exactly a difficult achievement, right?" Ruffnut, the female twin pointed out. The scrawny girl was sitting on an armchair, but being Ruffnut, she was upside down, her feet sticking up from the headboard of the chair and her head hanging off the seat cushion.

"Thank you!" Tuffnut beamed, before taking a pause. He turned to the closest person to him, who happened to be Astrid, and asked in a low voice, "Was that an insult to me?"

Straightening her knees up, Astrid assessed the boy critically. Deciding that she didn't need a Thornsten-twins' morning of stupid, she told him with a straight face, "No."

"Oh, okay." The skinny boy reverted back to his happy daze, grinning at his sister. "Thanks for supporting, sis."

"Don't mention it." Ruffnut herself didn't bother to correct the misconception.

"Soooooo, Astrid," Snotlout began in what he had once described as his 'not-girl-can-resist-this' voice in which all girls did resist it, "I was wondering-"

"My house has twice the space of yours, Snotlout," she growled at him through clenched teeth, grabbing hold of his shirt. The boy gulped. "For the last time, I don't _need_ to work out in your basement, and I certainly don't _want_ to."

"Whoa, whoa!" The blocky boy raised his arms in surrender. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to enlist with us."

"Enlist?" She let him go in her surprise. "To be Peacekeepers?"

"Haven't you heard? They've lowered the enlistment age to sixteen," Ruffnut supplied, kicking her legs back and forth in the air idly.

Astrid absorbed this information in astonishment, then shook her head. "I'll only be fifteen next month on."

"Great! We can all enlist together!" Tuffnut pumped a fist into the air, but as an afterthought added, "Wait, is fifteen more or less than sixteen?"

"Why did they change the age limit, anyway?" Astrid ignored the male twin, who decided to occupy himself with counting fifteen off his fingers, only to realize that he couldn't, and he would try again only to repeat to his failure. "I thought the point of keeping it at eighteen was that you could join after your tribute-" the word tasted bitter on her tongue "- _opportunities_ expire." After all, one's chance to join the ranks of victors – or fall with the losers - lasted only from twelve to eighteen years of age.

"Oh, they've amended the rules to accommodate that," Fishlegs answered before Snotlout could do so, for which Astrid was grateful. Her immunity to idiocy had been waning recently. "Peacekeepers or Peacekeeping trainees eighteen and under will be sent back to District 2 for every reaping, so their chances of becoming a tribute are

the same as everyone else."

"Isn't that great?" Snotlout was excited – why wouldn't he be? "Instead of studying about the stuff we're supposed to kill, we can actually kill stuff _and_ still have a chance of entering to enter the Games."

"It's not as wonderful as it sounds," a voice murmured, but the enthused cacophony that erupted thereafter drowned her out easily.

"Do you think they'll let us carrying guns? M-16s? Bazookas?"

"Duh, doofus! They'll have to train us first though."

"I don't need training. I have natural talent! I'll kill all the peace-breakers out there as easily as I'd kill a tribute."

"Do you think they'll let me throw grenades? I love grenades!"

"You've never killed a tribute, Snotlout. Astrid's the only one of who has killed _anyone_."

"So? It doesn't mean I can't."

"Do you think they'll let me drive a tank? A ship? A plane? Please, please, please, I want a jet fighter-"

"You don't even know how to reload a gun."

"I don't need to. I can just, well, kill stuff – with my face!"

It was then that Astrid concluded that the conversation was no longer appealed to her. She swung around and left the sitting room, heading straight the door corridor when she had come and left the house. She had done this often enough over the last three months, so her peers had grown used to her erratic behavior. Mood swings, they explained it to themselves, and they no longer bothered to run after her. For if Astrid Hofferson wished to be left alone, no force on Earth could stop her from being so. No force, but the Capitol.

Fortunately, it was still a good three months before the Victor's Tour began, so there was time enough for the bony blonde girl to soak in the solitude – if that was what she desired. Company was insufferable, but it was sometimes better than the haunts loneliness would bring.

Since her victorious return to the District, Astrid found herself often strolling down the victors' houses, watching as the older victors conversed amongst their friends and family. They still heartily shared the tales of their victories, showing off their injuries as trophies, and ruffling their children's hair and saying, "Don't worry, son. You'll get there someday."

She wondered if they had ever wandered the lonesome darkness; if they had ever seen the shadows crawling on the corner of the roads and dart a glance back in fear. She wondered whether they had slept with dreams full of fearsome faces and awoke with startled gasps echoing in the emptiness of their rooms, unable to pinpoint how or why they felt that way, but still incapable of shrugging off the clamminess of their own skin. She wondered if she truly was alone in such experiences.

If she walked far enough through the Victor's Village, she would reach the familiar hill sloping up towards the Mayor's Manor. The path had never been unfamiliar to her, for she had climbed it back when she was starving orphan trekking through the rain and wondering if death would have been kinder. Now, she was walking the space path on the brink of spring with the sun beating down, wondering why life had to be so unfair.

The Mayor's Manor in District 2 was possibly the most luxurious complex she had ever seen after the sights of the Capitol, and it had good reason to be. Despite it being technically a residential area, its rooms were often used for discussions amongst the upper crust of District 2, particularly those with connections to the Capitol. The Justice Building at the City Centre was still used for the common day-to-day, but the future of the District 2, and possibly Panem, lay within the walls of the Mayor's Manor.

Her knowledge of all this had not been discovered on purpose, but due to her accidentally overhearing those discussions. Given the number of times she visited the Manor, it was an eventuality that she would learn their importance.

All these visiting had not come out of nowhere though. It had just been that after her victory at the Games and after she had returned to District 2, a banquet had been held in her honor at the Manor. She had encountered the Mayor after trying desperately to avoid him, for Stoick 'the Vast' Haddock spoke to whomsoever he wished to speak to. After he had nailed her down to deliver a string of obligatory congratulations, she had blurted out, "I'm sorry for what happened, sir. I tried. I really did."

He had not been shocked by her words, but the brightness in green eyes – green eyes that she had seen on the boy who had followed her into the Games – dimmed into sorrow. "I know you did, lass. He just tried harder."

She had never truly found out what he thought of it all: of the threat of the ice mutant; of the rebelliousness attitude of the last few tributes; of his own son who trained –no, _befriended_ – a muttation, of all things. Other than that exchange during the banquet, Stoick had never spoken a word to about the Games. He did however speak to her of other things, such as how she should spend her time now, how she should spend her winnings, how to plan for her future and so forth. She had ever confessed to him about how restless she had felt, as if winning the Victor's crown from the deadliest Games of Panem was not satisfactory, and asked if he thought she should join the Peacekeepers.

"For many, being a Peacekeeper is merely a job. A source of income to keep mouths at home fed, and it pays better than masonry work," he had told her grimly on one of the fire-lit nights in the Haddock Manor. "But for victors like you and me, we needn't choose to spend our lives in the force. However, I chose to serve all the same. For in my eyes, serving my people – serving my nation, aye, there is no greater privilege. I started out a soldier, at the lowest of ranks, presenting myself as a humble tool for the preservation of our nation's sovereignty. When I gained popularity amongst my peers and those in Capitol, I eventually moved into politics, for there was where I was needed most. In the end, lass, our purposes comes down to necessity."

So did the Peacekeeping force need an axe-swinging fourteen, going on fifteen, year-old? He had told her that it would be three years before she needed to make such a decision, but now, it was just one.

Despite, or perhaps because of, her personal conflict, she found herself spending more time at the Mayor's Manor. Mayor Haddock had no objections to her visits, actively encouraging her lengthen her stay and dined with her whenever he could fit it into his busy schedule, which was sadly rare. Whenever she had the pleasure of his company, she enjoyed listening to his thoughts, whether they'd be about gossip in the town, matters from the Silver City or his fervent passion about the ideals of their nation. But the more she spoke to him, the more it occurred to her that how different he was to his scrawny, self-deprecating son whose interests lay in mechanical craft and apparently, dragons. She pondered on the dinner conversations that the two could possibly have with one another, or whether they even had dinner together at all.

The Manor was quiet when she pushed opened the door, but that did not mean that there was no company today. There were some Peacekeepers stationed around the meeting rooms and corridors, donning full armor; a security measure to protect visiting officials, be they from the Capitol or the Hall of Justice. Astrid had no fear before the stern white sentinels, knowing full well that behind each suit was just a fellow District 2 citizen, so she strolled past of all them, not even bothering to hide the axe strapped to her back. They had seen her here many times, so they knew full well that she was no threat to the officials, letting her pass through the main halls and climb up the stairs, up where the living quarters were.

For the grandiose appearance on the outside, the upper floors of the Manor were plain, but it was clear that the design was more functional than actually decorative – grey granite walls for ease of cleaning and thick rugs to keep the ground warm. The meeting rooms and studies all lay to the left of the stairway, and the residential areas were on the right. She went towards the latter, where she was greeted by the sitting room at the end of the corridor. It didn't have much, only a larger chair just the right fit for the Mayor's massive body, a fire place, and a wooden table surrounded by three chairs.

Astrid dropped the firewood next to the fireplace, but didn't light them, since there was no one but her to savor the warmth. The Mayor would see it later at night and he would have known that she came by.

Idly, she dusted the mantel over the brick-lined structure with a hand, pulling a face at the amount of cinders she had found accumulated there. The sole ornament that sat on the sooty shelf earned a much needed beating, and she replaced the stuffed dragon back where she found it. She had seen it many times during her visits to the Haddock house, but somehow never got around asking for its story. Sometimes, she would hold the dirty little creature between her hands, examining its wool-knitted eyes and the rounded spikes on its crown. She never had any toys herself, but she liked imagining how a younger Hiccup would have played with it. Perhaps his affinity with these terrifying, yet magnificent creatures grew from those times.

Eventually, she grew bored with playing Cinderella, so she wandered her way into Hiccup's room. She had no doubt that the Mayor would have locked up it like a miser locking up his gold, but she had asked to see it once, so he had never stopped her from visiting it since. In respect for Stoick's wishes though, Astrid did her best to leave anything she touched back where she had found it. Let the books and notes and papers and pens lay scattered over his sheets and table the way they had on the fateful day that both of them were called to the Arena.

Before the Games, she had never been much of reader, but now that she had the time, she had begun to peruse through one or two of the Mayor's recommendations. Of course, nothing was quite as interesting as reading Hiccup's things. He rarely wrote about of his daily life, filling his books instead with complicated blueprints of mechanisms and their parts. Little notes were scribbled along the margins, with equations and lingo she didn't understand, but read nonetheless.

For now, Astrid contented herself with sitting on the crumpled sheets and flattened mattress, finding another book of sketches to admire. She tried visualizing how he had intended each machine to work, and noted that surprisingly, or perhaps not, none of them were lethal. He was remarkably talented and she didn't doubt that with clearer focus and the right encouragement, he would have been a remarkable inventor.

But 'would haves' and 'could haves' didn't change the fact that he was no longer here.

It wasn't fair. She was supposed to be the hero. She was the one who was supposed to save him. He just had to do all the work. Pay the ultimate sacrifice. Give her everything she had ever wanted while making her feel as if she had nothing at all.

What was it that the nasty redhead from District 5 had said? _'There are no victors – only survivors.'_

Sometimes, when she lay in her big empty house alone at nights, fighting demons that couldn't be slain by the blade of her axe, Astrid wondered indeed how much she had truly lost by leaving the Arena alive.

* * *

 **Capitol Undergrounds**

 **Butterfly Room**

 **4 months after the end of the 74** **th** **Hunger Games**

She was acutely aware that she was supposed to be dead.

In a matter of fact, Rapunzel had first assumed that this world of bright white lights, polished surfaces and masked faces was indeed some kind of purgatory that she had been banished to. But as the sedatives were drained from her system and the haze settled in her mind, she learned to listen.

She was no longer in the Games. She was also not dead. She was in some place far worse.

In the first two weeks, she fought against the bonds around her wrists and the drugs they administered, doing everything she could to make their work difficult. For all her trouble, though, the bonds were strapped in tighter, and they increased the dosage of the sedatives. She hated being drugged. The dreams she had under that were often filled with horrible images and unpleasant emotions. She learned later from her eavesdropping that the sedatives that they stuck into her were precisely designed to this function. It apparently was a fear-conditioning agent they used on the other prisoners as well, instilling obedience and submissiveness in one stroke.

She was a prisoner to the Capitol. She knew that because they would often take her from the observatory back down to her own cell and she would note the National Crest plastered on every corner and door. They used to roll her down, bound to the hospital bed. After the first two weeks when she had become noticeably more subdued did they undo her bonds. They let her walk back and forth on her own, even within her own cell, with only her wrists cuffed together and her golden hair spilled behind her like liquid gold.

It was all because of her gift. Her curse. Her saving grace. Her deathly bane.

In the auditorium, where she would lay back in the reclined chair, she would listen to the scientists talk about her hair. They would take the long coils and lay it out on a flat operations table, the knots combed out and the strands lying parallel to one another. Glassy machines would run up and down the table as the masked beings with white faces looked on, occasionally glancing away to read the numbers of their screen. These doctors were quite fond of conducting their discussions loudly across the enclosure through their speakers and mouthpieces. They didn't care how much she heard, and perhaps it didn't matter, because as far as they knew, she couldn't use the knowledge she had gained.

Many times during their experiments, they would play the song – the sweet lullaby that was supposed to bring comfort to her heart and her healing to her body. The artificial voice that sang the incantation in the recording was anything but comforting. Yet, against her volition, the hair would still glow just as her captors wanted it to.

It was a visceral reaction, one of the scientists had theorized to his colleagues without knowing that she had overheard. The song had probably been sung to her when she had been very young and had come to be unconsciously associated to security in her mind. Thus, upon hearing the song, some reaction in her brain would kick off, causing her hair to glow. This was a special kind of radiation that when in close proximity to damaged or infected body tissues, quickened the repairs mechanisms in the tissues significantly, giving an appearance of instantaneous healing. It was a protective mutation that was meant to keep her safe and well.

Rapunzel did note the irony.

All the theories about her were not spun out of thin air - oh, no. Never let it be said that the Capitol's people were shoddy-workers. They were thorough scientists - observing, hypothesizing, experimenting and analyzing. They sought to explain every step of the healing mechanism. On the days that they were not squinting at her hair, they were putting her through scan after scan, stabbing needles into her veins, making her swallow strange mixtures that made her throat burn and stuck camera tubes up her nose to observe her brain. They had learned to drug her every time they did the last one, given how she had almost deafened them with her screeching once. The only way she could tell now was if she woke up in her containment cell with no memory of arriving there with a bruise on her nostril.

They didn't mind how long it would take, and they didn't certainly mind ripping her apart to find what they needed. It wasn't as if she could die from the incisions, or the x-rays, or the sheer amount of toxins they loaded in her bloodstream every hour. All it took was a playback of that horrible, despicable recording and the hair would make her body as good as new. She was like a regenerative lab-rat. In a matter of fact, she had wondered when it would finally occur to them to stop merely examining her and start experimenting on her.

It took a sweat-inducing nightmare of them testing strains of tracker-jacker venom on her to awake her to the urgency of her situation.

After a few private trial and error sessions held within the confines of her darkened prison, she found out that the effects of the nightmare-inducing suppressant decreased significantly if she used the glowing hair on herself. On discovering this tidbit, she couldn't help but smile in triumphant. Obviously, the scientists, for all their intellect, hadn't worked out how her own healing radiation could help her in resisting the drugging.

Rapunzel was careful to keep this knowledge to herself, feigning mental incontinence on examination tables. She stared blearily at her examiners while actually taking note of their habits, how they used their equipment and where they hung their key passes.

Eventually, she made her move.

She chose a night-shift – or at least, she assumed it was at night, given how the number of people in the lab decreased drastically. She hadn't seen the sky for ages, it seemed. There was only one scientist on duty to observe her that night. In the time that she had become less violent a subject of study, the Peacekeepers stationed with her had been removed. The researchers had even forgone binding her all together as to get better results on her blood pressure. They had assumed that the relaxant accumulated in her body kept her compliant, unaware of their grievous mistake.

Tricking the doctor to leave his seat behind the glass was easy. Through the bars of her cell, she sometimes watched how unconscious prisoners would suddenly convulse in their beds, flopping about uncontrollably before medics would rush in. _'Over-dosage'_ , she would hear them mutter to themselves, _'side-effects of the sedatives.'_ So she merely had to imitate that behavior to have the scientist rushing into the enclosure, hovering anxiously over her bed, unable to react before she shoved a syringe of the awful sedative straight into his arm. That glass tube had been swiped a day ago from a careless medical attendant who had complacently turned his back on her a day before, and it clattered onto the polished tiles. Her quivering but determined hands slapped themselves over the doctor's mouth, preventing him from sounding the alarm. After the sedative kicked in and he had crumpled up a heap on the floor, she scooped up her hair with her numb arms and darted out of the laboratory, swallowing her fears and worries.

It didn't work though, for she knew nothing beyond the walls of the lab. The maze of twists and turns had her hesitating every five steps. The Peacekeepers caught her within five minutes and hauled her back screaming to her cell. The scientists put her back on bonds and increased the drug dosage. The numbers of eyes watching her every move doubled.

But that didn't mean she had to stop.

Rapunzel continued to listen in on conversations, learning more about her own body while waiting for the next opportunity. As time slipped by, they would get complacent again and the minute they did, she would jump and run again. Each time she got caught, they would punish her. They cut down her meals, then her water, even cut her throat at one point – just lightly across the voice box - so that she couldn't sing to herself anymore. Shuddering alone in the cell and clutching her stomach while ignoring her burning throat was no fun. But no matter how painful it was, no matter how badly she suffered, the hunger, the dehydration, and the lacerations on her neck always disappeared every time they played that song in the lab. They could hurt her, but they couldn't cripple her.

Her hair – the same chain that bound her to this lifeless life - protected her.

And as long as it did, she would never stop fighting.

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **And none of them are about main characters, save Rapunzel.**

 **I promise that Emma's part would make more sense as time goes by, but I'll admit, it's the most un-THG thing I've written in this story before. No regrets though.**

' **The Hanging Tree' sung by Emma is from the Mockingjay Movie/Book. As you can tell, it's not the rally song in this version, but I love this song enough to give it a cameo.**

 **Science-fiction! Making stuff about Science since Edgar Rice Borough! Now explains magic!**

 **Up Next: Still debating whether we should return to District 13, or even whether we should go back to present time where Hiccup has awaken, or whether we'll see more of the outside stuff. Hmm… what shall it be?** **I don't have a definitive plan again.**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Still no beta! But I press on.**

 **So, I'm pretty busy with interviews and applications and basic evils of life, so that's why the chapter took so long for me to update. Warning – I might not even upload the next one till the end of May due to all the prep. So…sorry?**

 **I watched Zootopia. It felt like watching Inside Out again, except with a Disney after taste rather than a Pixar one.**

 **It's Easter! Yay! It's a time for new beginnings, hope and healing! Basically, everything that this chapter is** _ **not**_ **.**

 **Guest Mailbox:**

 **Skyline: I think I shall bring in characters from the new movies, but only from those I've watched or deem suitable (that means** _ **Home**_ **and** _ **Good Dinosaur**_ **are out). I might bring in Kai from KP3 after I've watched the film and if I need a villain (eh, who doesn't need one?). Humanized** _ **Zootopia**_ **is possible, though Judy and Nick are better suited to my Superhero AU story than this. Riley probably won't appear in this story, but humanized versions of her emotions have a good chance of doing so. Thanks for the review!**

 **Carebear: Thank you! I hope to see you around often.**

 **That's all for now.**

 **Review. Critique. Ask Questions.**

* * *

" **But he was wounded for our transgression; he was crushed for our iniquities; on him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and by his stripes we are healed." – Isaiah 53:5**


	3. Chapter 2: Rigor Mortis

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 2: Rigor Mortis

* * *

 **Warning: Depression. Mild PTSD. Mentions of drug-use.**

* * *

 **Arena**

 **Cornucopia Grounds**

 **1 minute before End**

 _"Hiccup?"_

 _It was that blonde Career, the one who used to carry an axe. She was a persistent creature, alright. Trekking all the way from the Summer Quarter with an injury like that. It's miracle that she hadn't died yet._

 _Hiro almost smiled at the odd sense of déjà vu washing over him. Hadn't it just been about ten days or more ago when he had snuck into the Cornucopia, only to be caught by her? Then she had forced him out in the snow to dig up mines to build something – some defense system for something. He couldn't remember anymore._

 _Now here he was, hiding inside the Horn, holding a mine in his hand, staying as still and silent as possible while she floundered outside._

 _He had nothing with him other than a quiver of arrows – which were useless without their archer and bow – and his ragged backpack with only a handful of dead mines and a breathing mask. Just before he had heard her call, he had been in the process of digging one arrow into his left arm repeatedly, spilling blood into the water below. If the audience from the Capitol could see him, they would be scratching their heads over this unnecessary self-injury – was it a suicide attempt? Fortunately, no such conundrum would be presented to these unwanted spectators, for the Horn had been burnt too well for any of cameras within it to be functioning. As long as he stayed in the Horn, he was out of the Capitol's sight._

 _He heard the District 2 girl sloshing about in the water. Did she honestly think anyone would survive that wreckage? Well, he survived, but that was purely by accident. Or maybe a more appropriate term would be, well, bad luck._

 _He gazed down at a little spherical explosive. After doing some fiddling with it, he managed to find an internal activation button on the device itself. Now, it was just a matter of deciding how to use it._

 _He could throw it at her. She would die, and he would be victor. The mission wouldn't have gone according to plan, but with all the data he needed in his head, it would be mostly a success. Better than whatever crazy thing he was trying pull off here._

 _But something stayed his hand. Maybe it was because of the agreement he had with Hiccup – after all, Hiccup did bargain for her to be the victor. Or maybe it was how lost and scared she seemed on her own - weaponless, companionless, even purposeless. Or maybe because Tadashi would have never done such a horrid thing._

 _It was strange that after all this time, he still considered his brother a role model. Tadashi did fail the mission, after all, and he didn't manage to prevent another year of the Capitol's violent tyranny. But even in his folly, Tadashi's heart stayed true. He still placed others before himself, displaying courage and love even when circumstances were against him. In a place which brought out the worse of people, it brought out the best of him._

 _Hiro sighed, peering down at the explosive that he held in his bleeding left hand. His eyes then turned to the silver band on his right._

 _Mr. Mysterious and his gang were going to be so mad with him. They would tell him what an unnecessary risk this all was._

 _Hitting the activation switch, he tossed the mine towards the mouth of the Horn, counting silently,_ _'5, 4,-'_

 _He pulled the breathing mask out of the bag and fit over his face. He made sure it was tight._

' _-3,-'_

 _He sunk himself into the water all the way, swallowing his own wince when the open wound on his arm met the murky liquid. The oxygen from the mask become his only life line._

' _-2-',_

 _He removed his 'body-shield', which was created from the cover of the Muttation Manual. Keeping everything underwater still, he held the leather cover in the direction of the blast with his left hand._

 _A second later, the mine exploded. Hiro was knocked backward upon impact , the wave of heat reaching him even below the surface. He swore that the murky water turned red for a second. But the ever-indestructible Muttation Manual protected him from the flames, as it was designed to do. His heart was ramming against his ears and he had to force himself to take slower breaths to conserve air._

 _He realized by the increasing volume of the sloshing that the blonde Career had run towards the remains of the explosion site, and now she was staring at the black gap that remained. She wouldn't see him hiding under the blackened water, thankfully._

 _At that moment, Hiro reached his right hand towards the wound in his left arm. He sucked in a tight breath, before digging his fingers into the wound. It hurt beyond belief, but he still grit his teeth as he searched the flesh, only ceasing once he found the smooth, cylindrical device, as small as his pinky. He clenched the tracker in his palm, and waited._

 _Five cannon shots would ring in the air – no doubt, the Gamemakers clustered them together for dramatic effect. He grinned behind the mask. Let the Capitol have its celebration. Let them think that the flat-line reading from his tracker meant his death, and not that he had simply dug out of his arm such that the tracker could no longer sense his heart beat._

 _Eventually, James Sullivan would then announce the end of the 74th Hunger Games, and hovercrafts arrived to retrieve their victor, and when that was done, Hiro could finally burst out of the water and rip the mask off. He sucked in the nice clean air – or rather, heavily polluted, soot-laced but oxygen-containing air – before beginning his task. He was pretty sure that Gamemakers reused the same Arena platform for every game, which meant that they would be soon shifting the landscape for a reset. He had to be out of here before that happened, or he was going to die a really, really horrible death once they discovered him. And District 13 would be nuked again._

 _The tracker in his hand was broken open by simply knocking it against walls of the Horn, and within seconds he was pillaging the tiny wires and circuits inside it. The most important of these really was its battery._

 _He had much experience working with miniatures all his life, so even he hadn't the instruments with him now, he was still able to dissemble the parts without destroying them. The perfect thing about trackers was that everything in it was designed to tiny so that it could be injected into the arms of the tributes. Thus, these parts were a perfect fit to his armband, which was all heavy-duty miniaturized tech. It took some careful reprogramming – especially tricky when he was doing these with his fat fingers instead of a needle probe – but he was able to replace the dead circuitry in the armband with the new parts. Whether it worked, however, was another story._

 _It might have been paranoia, but Hiro felt the ground below him shifting. He could almost hear the metal of the barbequed Cornucopia squeaking. He had to make his move now._

 _So as reluctant as he was, Hiro got to his feet. He slipped the armband onto his left arm, which was still a bleeding, gross mess. Then he pulled it off._

 _Nothing happened. He tried it a few times. Still nothing happened._

" _Oh, c'mon," he hissed under his breath, repeating the action over and over, each time more desperate than the last. By how roughly he was doing this, he ended up scraping the band against the wound on his arm, but he didn't really notice._

 _Then, by some manner of a miracle, after probably the fifteen time he had slipped it off his arm, the armband, with a 'whirr', transformed itself into a globe in his hand. The globe was glowing. It was active._

" _Finally!" He sounded frustrated, but he was very, very relieved._

 _He lifted the globe near his lips, then spoke the destination, "Thirteen."_

 _The light in the centre of the globe began to change, forming the shape of the crater-like surface of District 13 – the one that Capitol showed on television from time to time as if to say 'Thirteen is still in ruins! We are still victorious! Muhahaha!'_

 _Well, the Capitol lied. District 13 was very much alive and kicking._

 _He threw the globe into one blackened face of the wall, and at once that wall dissolved away, replaced by a multi-coloured, glaring swirl rolling itself._

 _He took a tight breath, made a quick prayer, then stepped into the portal._

 _As far as the Capitol knew, the District 3 male tribute's body was lost during the Games._

* * *

 **District 13**

 **6 months after the 74th Hunger Games – Present Time**

"So, that's it."

"Yep."

"I see." Hiccup nodded, his eyes still slightly glazed over.

"Sounds crazy, doesn't it?" Hiro let out a slight chuckle. "But yeah, it happened."

After Baymax had presented Hiccup with a glass water to hydrate himself and set him back on the bed, Hiro deactivated the robot for a while so that the both of them could talk alone; himself on the wheelchair and Hiccup's frail form reclined on the bed. The white-washed room beat its glaring lights onto their skin and sanitation spray filled their nostrils like an unwelcome stench. The tension between them however was what weighed most heavily on their minds, besides the millions of questions going through Hiccup's mind

"But if the armband worked, then where did-" without really meaning to, the brunette's eyes fell to the metal chair under the other boy.

"Right. That part." Hiccup noted how downturn of the corners of Hiro's mouth as the dark brown eyes hardened, his forehead creasing. The boy on the hospital bed tried to draw himself back, wondering if he had agitated his companion. Scrap 'wondering' actually. He could tell that the matter was a sore point for the District 3 boy.

After a cold silence, the young genius' answer was quiet, almost factual. "After the armband is activated and turns into a sphere, or as I like to call it, a ' _snow-globe_ ', and the person wielding it throws it into open space, the globe creates a temporary wormhole."

The term was unfamiliar to Hiccup. Perhaps it was some District 3 lingo. "What's that?"

"A wormhole is short-cut between two separate places through in space and time. Theoretically, it should allow a person to enter one wormhole opening at one place and step out of another wormhole opening at another place, even if the two places are miles away from each other. A simpler word we use to describe it is 'teleportation'. "

"Wow." Hiccup had to be amazed by this fantastic notion. You would never hear about these things in District 2. Then it occurred to him - "You said 'theoretically'."

"Well, yes." Hiro shrugged reluctantly. "My brother didn't actually get to experiment with the armband before he brought them into the games, and neither did I when I modified his creation. After all, the entire armband is destroyed in making the wormhole, and we could barely scrap the resources to make them as it was in District 3." He pulled a face, admitting, "So, yes, using those armbands was based mostly on theory."

"But it worked, right?" Hiccup asked, a sudden chill running down his spine. He glanced down at the blanket that sat over his own lower limbs, where one appendage was undeniably missing. He was getting an uncomfortable feeling these …'wormholes' were the reason for it.

Fortunately, Hiro was quick to allay these doubts. "Oh, the teleportation was fine for you guys. They were afraid that your coma might have been induced by particle transfer in the wormhole, but eventually it was settled that that was due to trauma, heavyblood loss and shock. Nothing unexpected."

"That's… reassuring," Hiccup said slowly, not feeling that reassured actually, even with the loss of leg no longer being attributed to these strange 'wormholes'. Then he realized that by saying _'_ you guys', Hiro hadn't finished.

"I programmed all armbands to have a fixed destination within District 13," the District 3 boy resumed his explanation soberly. "It was expected for the Endgame to be fiery, maybe even high-speed falling, so the programmed destination of the teleportation was supposed to be this particular point in space - five feet above a pool filled thirty feet deep in water. The idea was to reduce injuries, though Merida – that's the District 5 girl - got bad bruising upon hitting water surface. She was falling really fast, after all. Yours wasn't so bad, because your mutt protected you. His wings shielded you from impact."

"Toothless." Hiccup sat up straight despite his weariness. "He made it then. He's in District 13."

"Y-eah," Hiro confessed reluctantly, appearing rather peeved at himself for what seemed to be an unwitting reveal. "Yeah, he's here."

With that confirmation, Hiccup was ready to hop off the bed and race off, leg or no leg. "Can I see him? Where is he?"

"Um, no, you can't." This denial was spoken rather sheepishly, with the boy in the wheelchair seeming truly unhappy about his own answer. "And actually, I can't tell you where he is."

Quizzical was too mild a word to described Hiccup's mien. Try incredulous, or perhaps even angry. "Well, why not? He's my dragon."

Uneasily, Hiro squirmed under his companion's gaze. "Well, it's just protocol for the way muttations are treated here." Seeing horrified light filling Hiccup's eyes, he hastily added, "But he's safe! Safe and healthy! I promise! I know the person who cares for the mutts. You have nothing to worry about."

"But he'd be worried about me," Hiccup argued, the rawness of his throat muscles being all that kept him from shouting any louder.

"Well, we'll get to that after you've made a full recovery."

With that final note, Hiro was quickly steered them back to the previous topic. "Anyway, none of you guys really had problems with the teleportation process, but I did. Since I had to refit my armband in a hurry, the wormhole programming ended up having a glitch." Hiro let out a self-mocking smile. "When I exited the wormhole, I ended up being teleported twenty feet over the floor of the announcement hall – you'll see that place one day. There was only a table to break my fall."

There was a dismal dimming in his eye. "It was a miracle that I didn't break my skull, really, but I landed on my back so…" his lips shook, so he raised a hand to cover it, but the hand shook too. Hiro had screwed his eyes tight before he said, very quietly, as if the memory still hurt him now, "I broke almost every bone in my body. The doctors in Thirteen did their best, and it was a very good job, honestly. But they couldn't fix my spinal cord. If this was the Capitol, they would be able to – they have the resources. But District 13 doesn't have knowledge or the material to carry out such a procedure. In other words, -" resigned, like a speech he recited to himself in a mirror every morning "-I'm paraplegic. For life."

This was actually a word Hiccup knew. In the deep recesses of his mind, his dictionary on the injury-related words he had learned back in school resurfaced. And I don't mean the Career Academy, but normal school, where even wimps like him were expected to attend. Besides the usual language and mathematics, there were classes that were purely about Peacekeeping itself, though elementary knowledge such as names of weapons and types of military garb. There were also lessons about health, fitness and casualties. And from the casualty file, Hiccup drew out the definition of paraplegic – paralysis of the lower limbs.

"I'm-" before the sympathetic words could leave Hiccup's mouth, the other boy had already waved it away.

"Don't." Hiro shook his head. "You don't owe me anything. No apologies. No sympathies. I got what I deserved."

"You don't deserve to-" whispered conversations that seemed to have gone past just yesterday buzzed in Hiccup's head. "You chose to give me your working armband. You didn't need to that. You saved my life."

"I'm also fractured your left tibia bone during the Games – an uncalled for action - and I'm the one who ordered its amputation," was Hiro's crisp reply, placid and emotionless. The revelation of the latter news caused Hiccup's jaw to slacken, to which Hiro added dryly, "It was shattered beyond repair. Either you lived with a fractured bone stuck in your shin for the rest of your life, with high risk of infection and huge amounts of pain, or amputate." The bitterness was so thick that Hiccup could almost taste it. "I would apologise, but I don't think I even deserve that privilege even."

With his head still bowed, Hiro took adjusted the controls on his wheelchair, directing it to turn about and roll towards the door. The ward door drew open automatically when it sensed him, and he prepared to leave behind the stricken silence, but he took pause.

Without turning to face the other boy, Hiro said, "I'll arrange for a prosthetist to see you once Baymax deems you sufficiently fit. Don't worry. At least one of us will walk out of this room one day."

The quiet hum of the moving door closing behind the departed boy was hardly noticed by Hiccup as he sank back into the bed covers, completely at a loss.

* * *

 _'My name is Elsa Arendelle. I am nineteen years old. I grew up in District 12. I was born with powers over ice and snow. Out of carelessness, I hurt my sister when we were young with a blast of ice. My parents were killed in a fire when I was thirteen. When I was eighteen, my sister was reaped for the 74_ _th_ _Hunger Games, so I volunteered in her place. By some manner of a miracle, I survived the Hunger Games and have taken refuge in District 13. My sister, my District and the rest of Panem however still live under impression that I am dead. Perhaps it's better that way. At least I can't hurt them anymore.'_

"Wow, that last line is pretty depressing," the psychologist's voice buzzed through the speakers in room. The words that she murmured to herself seeped through as well, "Actually, all of it's pretty depressing..."

After the Great War, the survivors of the old rebellion didn't all die off. Instead, they went underground to protect themselves from the radiation. Eventually, as their population grew, the leaders of the District 13 began thinking about survival for the long term. Proper infrastructure was carved into the stones and dirt. Steady pillars enforced with steel netting to prevent the inward collapse of their house. Stairwells and lifts installed to carry citizens up and around the cave-like District. Indoor gardens were constructed to grow crops below the surface, where it was safe. Technology was invented to dispose of and dissipate the radiation above ground.

As the living conditions improved, the number of people living there steadily rose. Like a civilization awakening into the enlightenment, District 13 began to arm itself - with its primary weapons being its people. It was seen to that, according to their abilities, everyone contributed to the District.

The defense department was one of the earliest to be established, in the constant threat of the Capitol's invasion. Though seventy-five years had seen peace for most part, District 13 was prepared. Almost every member of the physical capacity served on the force in addition to other duties. A nutrition department was step up just to control food distribution across the District, ensuring that everyone had the means to obtain the precise amounts of nutrients they needed – and nothing more. An education department was set up to educate citizens in anything ranging from mechanical engineering to medicine, as long as it was of use to the District. The research department was probably the most expensive department, but very important nonetheless. After all, without it, District 13 would have never been able to made itself completely sustainable - in terms of securing its oxygen, water and food supply while staying ninety-five percent of its time underground, to say the least.

Despite these successes, District 13 lived in a constant state of alarm, with patrols and parameter checks considered more important than rest sometimes. Everything that they had was rationed and distributed in the most practical manner, towards the goal of either survival or prolonging survival.

The amount that spent on her living quarters then could only be said to be a splurge.

For the safety of others, she had been installed in a sealed but spacious enclosure with advanced thermostatic features and insulated material lining its every inch. There was a corridor that visitors could walk into though – one protected from any spikes in her emotions. Here they could see her through the six-inch, double-layered glass display.

But that was only when she let them. There were cold-resistant switches on her side of the glass that allowed her to draw and withdraw metal shutters over the glass. If she didn't do that, she could still hide from public view by staying in the bathroom or bedroom, which could not be seen through the glass. The District 3 boy, Hiro, had been adamant that she was given privacy. Despite the confinement, he didn't want her to feel like a prisoner. This was District 13 – it was supposed her haven as much as anyone else's. She knew it had taken much heated discussion before he got the permission to install the shutters and the extra rooms in her quarters. For that, she was thankful. He was a sweet boy - brilliant too. Pity about that handicap.

She received her meals through a small, sliding door cut into the glass wall, where items to be moved between rooms without changing the temperature significantly. There was also a microphone at the visitor's corridor which could be used by guests to speak to her, and there was a frost-proofed microphone on her side which she could use to answer them back. Most of the time, she had no visitors and boredom filled the hours between meals and haunted sleep. The last of these often lead to unexpectedly large amounts of ice constructs accumulating around her. Sometimes those were in such large volumes that she needed attendants to come in and dig her out of the self-induced snowdrift.

There was no way to curb her powers definitely, but they had tried to reduce it. The psychologist who saw her from time to time suggested that she write about herself, as well as the troubles that she saw in the dark. It was hoped that written expression would serve as a more harmless catharsis compared to spewing ice, and so that she could finally move on.

To be honest, Elsa didn't want to move on. Call it childish, call it backward, but if she moved on, she was afraid that she would forget. Even if dreams of fire invaded her dreams, even if judging faces filled her fears, she didn't want to forget the Games. Much of the memories were bad, but there were pieces of it – people in it – worth remembering.

One day when she was comfortable, she would let the psychologist read about them. Read about _him_. But today, where she folded her arms towards her chest as she pressed herself back against her ice-coated chair, she didn't really feel like sharing her problems.

"Do you have anything that you can be happy about, Elsa? Surely, that must be something positive to get out of this all." The psychologist probably didn't mean to sound critical, but Dr. Joy wasn't exactly the most tactful person around. Hiro said that she was 'go-getter', meaning that she was more interested in getting people out of their mood-swings and back to some form of functional living rather than comforting them. It kept workers in the District efficient and motivated, so Elsa did see the practicality in such a work goal, but for someone like her who couldn't move an inch out of her allocated quarters, she wasn't allowed to take on any work anyway. There wasn't much drive for her to 'think positive', as Dr. Joy had prescribed.

Besides, any form of emotion, even positive ones, still resulted in sub-zero temperatures and icicle formation within her enclosure. No amount of therapy was going to undo a curse.

"I-I'm grateful to be alive, I guess," Elsa answered blandly into her microphone, staring down at her gloved hands. Those pieces of fabrics felt more like shackles than any other of the restraints she had been placed under during the first few days in District 13, where they had literally to strap her to the hospital bed while they added to salves to her burnt flesh. No one told her how much property damage she had caused during those months in the infirmary, but it had been hinted that the doctors were very reluctant to ever let her back in again.

"Yeeahh." Dr. Joy certainly didn't sound overjoyed at her response, but still tried to run with it nonetheless. "Wasn't it lucky of you to get that armband? You wouldn't be alive otherwise."

Luck? Perhaps it was. Those small, silver bands in the Games could alter the odds of surviving so drastically, from being a dead tribute to having a second chance to live in a District that everyone thought had been disseminated in the Great War. But Elsa didn't give luck all the credit. The band would have never entered her hands if it wasn't for the strange, skinny boy who in his dying breath told her to live.

The boy whom she had killed with her curse.

Her answer revealed none of her thought to the psychiatrist. "I guess so."

"That's the spirit!" Dr. Joy declared with all the enthusiasm Elsa didn't feel. "Now, how have you been spending your time?"

Staring at wall. Watching snow float from the ceiling to the ground. Trying to come up with scenarios where she wouldn't have shot Jack with ice and that they both survived in District 13, then trying to decide which of the surviving tribute she would kill in his place. "Reading."

It wasn't a complete untruth. Hiro had lent her a few books on what he called 'molecular chemistry'. He thought it would be useful if she could learn more about the particles that she apparently had so much yet so little control over, to which she did agree. The problem was that she couldn't understand the complicated diagrams and scientific jargon. Hiro promised that he would come by when he could to explain it better, but he was often busy with his own work. Elsa didn't really want to bother him. No point investing resources into a bottomless pit who couldn't contribute much in return.

"Not too bad. Good to keep mental stimulation. Have you been writing much?"

Only as long as she managed not coat the graphite tip on her pencil with ice. She had long given up on using pens for obvious reasons. "Yes."

"Well, we can keep doing that then. Any other entries you want to show me?" The psychologist waved a hand at the exercise book. It was sad, crumpled, book-eared thing that had suffered the consequences of damp and deep-freezing.

Elsa shook her head gloomily. "Not really."

Dr. Joy seemed disappointment about the lack of willingness to share, but didn't voice this. "Alright then."

Opening the small sliding-door along the table required the psycologist, who was on the outside, to unwind the safety clasp on the door and unhook it, then press the three buttons around the door to unlock it. The little door can then be slid open to reveal the compartment where the object, like the journal, could be laid. Dr. Joy then slid the door back shut, ensuring that all three locks are secure on her side and the safety clasp was fitted back on before Elsa undid the door on her side in a similar manner to retrieve the item from the compartment.

"Before I go, I hope you don't mind if we do some word-association exercises." It wasn't really a suggestion. Dr. Joy certainly knew how to be pushy. "I know we've done this a couple of times, but I just like to see how your progress is coming along."

In other words, Elsa wasn't progressing enough by Capitol standards. "Okay."

"Just relax. Answer with the first thing that comes to your mind when I read the word. It can be a word or a phrase." Through the glass, she noted how the psychologist had removed a sheet of paper from her file, and clipped it to her clipboard. Elsa leaned back in her chair, trying to relax, but only feeling tenser. Still, when the psychologist asked her if she was ready to go ahead, she said that she was.

"Okay, first word." Dr. Joy peered down at the sheet, then read out, "Bread."

"Food." The answer was self-evident, but the bread that Elsa thought of wasn't the coarse, hardened things that Anna and her used to chew. She thought of instead the delicately sugar buns in the sponsor's basket that she had feasted with her then-District mate. Food, at the price of a show. A show of romance.

"Ha," the psychologist chuckled slightly. "Next one - Red."

"Fire." She remembered the quiet fires in the snowy woods, with her brunette ally warming his fingers over the heat as she poured out the story of how she froze her sister head before him and the rest of Panem. But fire also swallowed up her childhood home while her parents had been trapped within.

"White."

"S-snow." But she really thought of hair - Hair as white as snow across the head of the boy who begged her to end his suffering. Her first kill – not counting the two indirectly caused by her before that.

"I should have figured that myself," Dr. Joy murmured amusedly as she scribbled this down. "Good."

 _Be the good girl, you've always had to be._ "My parents."

"Luck."

Anna's face when the Capitol person read her name of that fateful white slip of paper. Out of the thousands of names, hers had been drawn. Out of the thousands of girls, only one would volunteer in her place. "Chance."

"Loud."

The collapse of her beautiful ice castle. The majestic pillars ripped apart by explosives and the crashing of the chandelier pieces over her own head. "Noise."

"You shouldn't just give synonyms," Dr. Joy chided. "What do you see feel about it, maybe?"

Scared. "Annoyed."

The psychologist wrote this down, then went to the next word. "Love."

"Anna." But Elsa didn't think of how much she loved her sister, though she imagined that she probably did. Instead, she thought of how her sister had once proudly announced to have found 'true love', and how by a cruel twist in the tale that the object of Anna's 'love' had instead declared his love for elder Arendelle girl in front of the whole of Panem.

"Hate."

The look on Hans' face as he glared at Jack across the lake of ice, then the grim satisfaction when his sword pierced his rival's chest. "The Capitol."

"Courage."

A staff gnarled at one end, shaped like a 'G'. 'G' for Guardian."Foolishness."

"Error."

An ice-blast that hit the head. An ice-blast that hit the heart. Her entire existence. "Inevitable."

"Fear."

 _Conceal, don't feel. Don't let them know._ "Loss."

"Sleep."

 _Nightmares._ "Rest."

"Evil."

"..."

"The first thing that comes to your mind, Elsa. C'mon, you can do this."

"...Monsters."

 _Me._

* * *

"He's awake."

Her fuzzy head took a moment to locate the source of the voice, and her bloodshot eyes took even longer still to focus on the face through the bars. A surge of indifference shot up her system just as nausea did.

"Oh, it's you. Again." With just that as a greeting, she shifted herself such that her back was rested against the bars themselves, so that there was no way for her to meet his gaze. "You should really stop getting guard duty here."

"Well, you stop getting thrown into here," he retorted crossly.

Light streaming in from behind cast his large shadow over her cell, but his form was not one she associated with fear. It was the skinny ones that carried gleaming axes. Or the short ones with giant maces. Or giant hairy brutes with wet fur and fresh blood on its fangs. Nope. She toyed placidly with her sleeves of her standard issue uniform. She wasn't scared of him. "Not your problem."

"Kid, this place stinks – like seriously. Don't you smell the pee in the air? It's unhygienic! And lonely! And … boring." She watched uninterestedly as his shadow copy gesticulated for emphasis. "Prison's not a place you should be aiming to visit every week."

Ralph. Ralph. Ralph. Well-meaning, heart-of-gold Ralph. Strong, muscular Ralph, who was immediately accepted into military training after leaving the infirmary. He was so proud to exchange the drab hospital gear for the trainee uniform, and he might have teared up when they had first addressed him as 'Soldier.' Such a gift it was to be _needed_ , and in a fight against the Capitol too! What more could an ex-tribute ask for?

She could have the same too, he had told her often enough after she had been discharged. There was always a place for another sharpshooter. Besides, as a refugee in District 13, they all had been granted citizenship here. They were technically of age to serve on the force.

But even after all remnants of her stitches had been removed from her ear and scalp, and even after her mangled left arm was restored back to its moveable self, Merida still felt like a wreck. Like she was a heap of junk that was forced to move forward and back, and she just wanted to grab whatever pieces of her was left and toss them into something. A bonfire would be nice.

After she had been assigned her own compartment – a narrow, tiny room that was barely the size of her bathroom in District 5 - she had dreamed that she was stuck in a metal box. The box was shrinking down her rapidly, its walls unbreakable by her pounding on it. The only way out was a small door that she could just barely squeeze through. But the gap of the door was filled with the snout of a snarling black creature. Each time she just stuck one part her through the door, the beast would snap its fangs at it and she would recoil, frightened. And the room just kept shrinking.

'What more could an ex-tribute ask for?' Well, some peace, for one.

There seemed to be such a lack of it in 13. It was always hustle here, rush there, complete this task by this time and so forth. Everyone was so busy being uniformly productive and efficient while she was so clueless and bothered. She had pretty much given up on her third day of going with the program.

There were words inked on the smooth side of her forearm – her 'schedule'. Every normal resident of District 13 had these little contraptions in their compartment which tattooed personalized schedules on their arms before the day began. Like _7:00 – Breakfast. 7:30 – Kitchen Duties. 8:30 – Education Centre_. This went all the way till _22:30 – Lights Out._ It was so _precise_ , so damnably _organized_ , that it reminded her of the stringent schedules her own mother used to assign to her.

The plastic band on her right arm still read 'mentally-disorientated', and that had probably been the only thing that stopped her from getting disciplined for cutting out on her schedule. Even then, people started getting really impatient with her as time wore on. District 13 had a fierce dislike of 'free-riders', though not in an unreasonable manner. It was understandable that you couldn't do patrol duty or cleaning if you were a blind old man who couldn't talk or walk – the District would find something else for you to do. But if you were physically-fit young woman with strong working limbs, there was no reason why you should be skiving when everyone else was blistering their thumbs on the grinder. They didn't sent you to jail for breaking schedule, but they did other things - like giving you one bar of soap when everyone else got two, or removing private compartment rights, or refusing to help you get your heater fixed.

Because of her 'special status', breaking schedule didn't exactly result in her getting 'punished' - unless being assigned to see her doctor again was counted. She just skipped all those appointments though. She didn't like the doctors. One of them was so terrifying energetic and enthusiastic about everything that just put Merida off, and the other was so mopey all the time that she seemed to be needing help herself.

No, she'd rather deal with it herself. It might be inefficient by District 13's standards, but at least she wouldn't need to share her life with people who couldn't help her anyway.

"Why are you even here, Ralph?" Merida questioned tiredly, wrapping her knees in her arms. "You know I don't listen to you. Or anyone, really."

She heard his sigh and she watched as the large shadow slumped itself down on the visitor's bench. "I know. But I figured that you should know."

"Know what?"

"Like I said earlier. He's awake."

"Who's-" then it clicked. "Oh."

She couldn't really place how she felt, but the relaxation of her shoulders wasn't due to relief. It was an odd sense of completion, like an event that had been expected to happen had finally happened. That was all to it really. She took no joy to knowing the boy from District 2 lived to fight another day.

"I thought that you might want to see him after you're – well, - when you're released."

Merida allowed herself a wry grin. "Well, I'm suddenly thankful that that's three days from now."

Being useless and unproductive was not really a crime in District 13, but being a thief certainly was. She managed to get away with it the first three times thanks to her special 'condition', but after to many repeats in addition to her refusal to see the doctor, they had given her a choice to go to prison like 'sane' people would, or go back to hospital under the intensive care unit. They were quite surprised when she chose the former. Unlike what they thought, she did understand the preciousness of resources. She didn't want to take up attention and bed-space she didn't need. So really, everything would be a lot easier if they would _JUST GIVE HER THE CURSED MORPHLING AND MAYBE SHE WOULD STOP STEALING IT!_

Thank you.

There was puzzlement in Ralph's voice, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. "Don't you want to see him?"

It was only then that she pulled herself away from the bars, unfolded her arms and swiveled herself around, facing him. If she had thought him large in the Games, he seemed larger still in now, thanks to good nutrition and the bulky armor plates of his soldier armor. He had flourished in District 13 as much as she had deteriorated in it.

Perhaps a childish envy fueled her words. "Ralph," she spoke very slowly. "If by some miracle Turbo survived the Games along with the rest of us, and he was coma possibly induced by you, and you've been half-hoping every day that he'll be pushing up daisies tomorrow, or the day after. But then one day-" her body suddenly lurched forward abruptly and she slapped a hand over mouth. Ralph reached forward to help – not that his huge hands could fit through the prison bars. Her own hand was outstretched as a refusal just as quickly.

After swallowing down the icky bile, Merida continued, dry and soulless, "But one day, Turbo wakes up. Would you want to see him?"

"The Two kid isn't Turbo," was Ralph's immediate reply.

"Really?" Merida arched a brow at him. Her glare would have been rather intimidation if she wasn't constantly bothered by a gnawing in her gut. "You barely knew anything about Turbo. You definitely don't know much about Dragon boy. How do you both of them aren't the same type psychopathic-killers?"

"Well, I-I-" he struggled for a response. Just as Merida thought herself victorious in the debate – or it was a debate in her mind, he answered, "Well, I can't. But that's me. You can. You've seen enough of them both."

He was right. Unfortunately, he was right. Ralph could operate under the excuse of ignorance because he wasn't in the position to know, but she couldn't. She had spent enough time with both boys during the Games to know how truly different they were.

She wished that the District 2 boy was truly evil, or brutal, or guilty of something at least, the way Turbo was. But the Two boy wasn't and that was the problem. From whatever she had seen of the 74th Hunger Games footage, he was probably the most spotless of all. He didn't kill a single person himself! That made the actions she took against him just pure out disgusting. _She_ was disgusting, and she hated feeling that way.

She wanted to go home – to District 5, not her compartment. She wanted to the hero again.

No, wait. She didn't want to go home. She didn't want them to see her like this, remember? To her Da', she was the pride and joy. To her mother, she was the little lady. To the rest of District 5, she was their hero. To District 13, she was a menace who should really stop stealing from the medicine cupboard.

Anyway, there was no point thinking about this. As far as the rest of Panem was concerned, District 13 was still a steaming pot of radiation and she was just another casualty in the Hunger Games.

"I don't feel like talking to you anymore, Ralph," she told him outright. She couldn't even be bothered to be tactful anymore. "Just leave me alone."

He didn't take it well, as expected, spouting another lecture about consequences, helping herself and moving on. She switched her attention off, keeping her face sufficiently blank that it infuriated him enough to make him leave. Well-meaning, heart-of-gold Ralph. He was no match to her incredible stubbornness and blatant disregard for his opinion.

Once he was gone, she took a brief reconnaissance of her surroundings. The cells within her vicinity were all empty and the only guard was standing somewhere near the lift landing, out of sight from where she was. Merida drew herself back a little, before pulling out the object tucked under her standard-issue shirt. When the guards had arrested her and confiscated the object of her theft, they hadn't known that she had hidden part of prize at that time. _Doaty_ lot of _lavvy heids_ , they were.

She tucked her knees in front of her before dropping the packet in from her, so that the packet wouldn't be immediately noticed by the passerby. She didn't bother reading the labels before she tore open the flap, which was why she groaned only after seeing the contents. Morphling came in three forms; tablets, injections and drips. She was never very good at handling the second form because of her shaky hands. This was a strange trait that she discovered about herself while in District 13 - strange, because an archer ought to have steady hands.

After unwrapping all the sterile packaging, she tried to jab the syringe needle into the vial containing the liquid, then realized after two tries that she hadn't removed the needle cover. She amended this error and pierced the vial cap, beginning to drawing up the liquid into the syringe. Once she emptied the vial, she removed the needle from it. She then turned the syringe such that the needle was pointing up. She flicked her fingers against the side of the syringe. She had no idea what it was for, but the nurses in the infirmary always did that before administering the medicine.

Some part of her knew inherently that all this was wrong, and that Ralph was right, but she didn't really care. She was sick, so she needed medicine. Simple as that.

She was held the needle near her forearm, where the printed schedule of perfect efficiency told her all the better, more productive things she could have been doing instead of trying to stab herself with a needle in a jail cell reeking urine.

It took around three times before she finally pressed down on the plunger, and even then, she wasn't sure if she stuck the needle in the right place. Once done with the deed, she couldn't be bothered to recap the needle and hide her evidence. She threw all the wrappings on the other end of the cell, leaving it in open view. Let them see how incompetent their guards were.

It was pathetic that such petty things were what she derived satisfaction from nowadays.

It took a while for the morphling to kick in after that, and even so, she might have still cried anyway.

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **And that's how Hiro survived. It's ridiculously complicated, but I did try foreshadow all the stuff that he would use to survive. But being ridiculously Hollywood-influenced, I compensate letting him survive with crippling him for life. Aren't I a great author?**

 **Oh, if anyone's confused, after the flashback, the events here continue on from those in the Prologue.**

 **Elsa's journal entry and Merida's depression phase are inspired from Katniss' Depression in the Mockingjay book (I might hate this book, but I still reference to it anyway. This issue wasn't tackled much in the movies – which was good! I wouldn't have liked them otherwise). And the Depression/PTSD isn't going to stop here. I'm half afraid that this would become one of those dealing with mental disorder modern AU …oh dear. More about morphling would be revealed later, and yes, it is annoyingly present in the THG books.**

 **Oh, yes – Inside Out cameos! I haven't decided how important they would be, but you never know…**

 **Up Next: Life in District 13, probably. It mightn't be the Capitol, but it's still no wonderland.**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Still really busy person. Still no beta. I think I might have to accept that my beta is truly gone. (Be brave, Shar *sniffs*).**

 **Writing all this rather depressing. I can't wait to get back to killing people again.**

 **Guest Mailbox:**

 **Tote awesome: Isn't it great? So many people are alive! Too many, really…**

 **Guest (Apr 2): You like the first book? Awesome! A third book? I have considered it, and it might happen. Ideally though, I think I would prefer to finish this in just two books in total. As for power couples….I don't think I can say without it revealing something in the future chapters. If it helps, I usually stick with canonical ships, save the occasional dash of Jelsa (*huge cheers from Jelsa lovers*) – ahem, when necessary (*Jelsa lovers harrumph*).**

 **So, thanks for reading all this! I love reviews, so if you still find it in your heart to like this story after this depressing chapter, drop one.**

 **Review. Critique. Ask Questions.**


	4. Chapter 3: The Bitter Pill

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 3: The Bitter Pill

* * *

 **District 13**

"You said that last month, Soldier Hamada. Yet here we are."

He swallowed, peering down onto the polished metal table instead of the one speaking to him. "I was mistaken. I'm sorry about that, sir. But I really need more time."

"You are aware," another one member of the circle put in coldly, swiveling her chair so as to face him, "that the longer you take, the more people die."

Hiro tilted his head slightly to the right, still not looking up to the fierce eyes staring down at him. "I understand, m'am."

"Then what's taking so long?" another council member snapped impatiently, rapping his knuckles against the smooth surface of the table. "You said that you've memorized all the schematics of the entire Capitol digital system. If it's all inside your head as you claim, why's it taking so long for you to create a copy of it?"

"First, sir, I have to key in all the data manually and that takes a lot more time than it seems," Hiro defended himself, actually gazing up now and sounding a little indignant. He didn't need to add that the process was actually very exhausting, or that sitting for long hours made him back hurt a lot. "Secondly, there is a lot more to replicating an entire digital system than just imputing data. I'm essentially creating from scratch an electronic network that took the Capitol a century to build. Just to contain the size of the program I'm creating, I've needed to invent new softwares and reprogram many networks. I'm not even talking about how much many of our rundown devices and holo-computers are. Some of them barely have the capacity to function normally! Even in District 3-"

"This is _not_ District 3, Soldier Hamada. This is District 13," a quiet voice pierced through Hiro's rant.

Silence flooded over the members of the circle as all turned to face the _de facto_ Chairman of their team. Hiro gulped involuntarily as he was judged by dark eyes, hardened like granite.

The softness of the tone did not disguise the steeliness behind the words. "You were given a deadline, and you're expected to adhere to it. We are preparing for war, Soldier, but without the programs that you have promised, we cannot move much further. Incompetence cannot be tolerated."

Hiro shrunk back as much as he could in his chair, trembling. "Yes, Mr. President."

"We kept our end of the bargain with you, Soldier. Four surviving tributes as well as yourself have been given refuge in our District at great cost to many of our valuable agents in the Capitol." There were grunts of agreement with this statement, a particularly emphatic one coming from the blonde woman in uniform. "The stunt that you pulled during the Game – by risking your own survival and thus the entire mission on a faulty arm band - could have set us back several years, so be grateful that you have not been disciplined for that."

Under his breath, Hiro muttered, "A _life_ was at stake."

"A life that wasn't worth saving, Soldier." Unfortunately, the president had sharp ears, and he was very displeased with what he heard. "As per our deal, citizen rights have been granted to all extracted tributes, but it doesn't change the fact that your choices have introduced a significant security risk in our midst."

"Security risk?" The boy cocked his head to the side, not understanding. Then it dawned on him. "You mean Hiccup?"

"Any member of District 2 is a threat to the rebel movement, especially now that he has awakened," a member of the group intoned cryptically. Many others expressed that they conceded with this view.

"Hiccup has no more love for the Capitol than any of us," Hiro protested, drawing himself up straight. It didn't make him look very much taller amongst all the adults on the table, but it was better than nothing. "The Capitol forced him into the Games. Of course he hates them! He'll gladly join the rebellion."

"You do realize who his father is, don't you?" the blonde council member interjected wryly, crossing her arms and narrowing her gaze at him. "Are you really risking District 13, and the rest of Panem's freedom, on lingering loyalties that he might have for his own flesh-and-blood?"

"His father…" Hiro didn't really have a rebuttal for that. The circle sucked upon his hesitation like a leech, their hostility rising each second. Furious mutters were exchanged, and the boy was at a loss about what to do.

Fortunately, a harsh observation rang clear in the dissonance, silencing it, "Might I remind the council that Tamora Calhourn herself was once the head of the Capitol's Secret Intelligence and was personally responsible for the deaths of numerous rebel agents?"

The blonde soldier sat herself up, glaring darkly at her accuser. "I have a damn good reason for why I switch sides, Vogstein."

"And Hiccup Haddock does as well," the mousy-looking woman known as Vogstein shot back. Obviously, her appearance didn't quite fit her personality. Facing the President herself, she said, "Lieutenant Calhourn had the opportunity to prove her loyalty and usefulness to our cause despite her past transgressions. I suggest that in light of Hiccup Haddock's actions during the Hunger Games that he be given a similar chance."

"Indeed, Professor Vogstein," the Chief of State mused, not quite agreeing, but at least, not dismissing the idea. He eyed the dark-haired woman meaningfully. "Somehow I knew that you would be the one to suggest it."

She gazed back at him, unwavering.

Hiro subtly glanced back and forth between the officials, uneasily twiddling with his thumbs under the table.

After the tense lull, the President finally made his declaration. "Very well. Hiccup Haddock shall be given the chance to prove himself, but should he be suspected to sympathize with the enemy, or commit any act that suggests such, he would be tried and punished in accordance to our laws."

This was obviously directed to him, so Hiro answered, "Understood, sir."

"As for the programming, you will be given the month that you've asked for," the President continued, severe as ever. "But know well, Soldier Hamada, that if you do not deliver by then, you will be held accountable for it. You may be a boy yet, but you are a soldier here, and you have duties that you are expected to fulfil."

His throat had run itself as dry as a desert, so it was no wonder that his reply was barely audible. "Yes, sir."

Subsequently, the meeting was adjourned. Hiro was glad to finally be able to leave the stuffy Command and back to the fresh air outside. Well, okay, the air pumped through the vents in District 13 could not exactly be said to be 'fresh' at all, but corridor air was always better than room air – especially a room of old, stiff-lipped people.

Just as he had begun to roll the wheelchair down the walkway, he heard his name being called. Pausing for a moment, he glanced behind him, finding that it was the brunette woman on the council was hurrying forward, seeming rather excited.

"Professor Vogstein?" he greeted her with surprise as she stopped before him.

The woman laughed lightly, shaking her head at him. She always seemed to be such a different outside the council – relaxed, enthused, eager. "Really, Hiro, it's just Val to you. Now, you remember that you asked me to look over those suit designs for you? Well,-" she rummaged through the files that the bag that she carried, before producing a small flash drive "-I have! Isn't that fantastic? All my suggestions for improvements are inside."

"Oh." Hiro accepted the offering with slight hesitation. The burden that had been laid on his shoulders was making its weight felt very pointedly, so he wasn't feeling as excited about this as he had once been. "Thank you, but-"

"I've never really studied a human muttation before," she continued, clearly not seeing his distress. "It was really interesting trying to put it all together. The ice-powers, the biology, the genetics behind it-"

"Mutant," he corrected her, fingering the device uneasily.

"Mutant," she repeated dismissively, too absorbed her own ramblings. "Anyway, I think this little side-project of yours is just wonderful. That poor girl has been trapped inside that cage for ages! Think of what this might do for her." Her smile faded when she finally down at him. "Why, what's the matter?"

He pressed his lips together, taking a moment to phrase his words carefully. Out of all those in Thirteen's Council, he trusted Professor Vogstein the most, but he didn't want to reveal too much. "It's just that I'll be very busy catching up with my other … work."

"Oh, right." The woman seemed rather subdued after remembering this rather vital piece of information. It was amazing how rapidly she could forget the topic of discussion in council meetings. Hiro sometimes wondered how she ended up being in the council at all, given how absentminded she tended to be. "Well, that is unfortunate. But that won't be problem, I should think. She's been in there for six months, I suppose. Another one won't hurt."

"Yes, I suppose so," he told her, his returning smile not quite reaching his eyes. Fortunately, Professor Vogstein was not the most observant when it came to human beings. She preferred saving her perceptiveness for her favorite field of research.

Both of them parted ways, and Hiro made his way to down to the Special Defense Centre. Even though it was also located in the defense department, it was several floors below the administration floor where the Command was. Luckily for him, the lifts installed all over the structure made it convenient to find his way deeper underground.

The Special Defense Centre was a convoluted space crowded with labs, holo-computers, new inventions, researchers, scientists and the occasional soldier for test-runs. Hiro knew that the security here was always very tight, being accessible only to those with the specific authorization. It was a jointly run by specialized units in the defense and research departments, dedicated to the advancement of weapon technology as well as other defensive systems in District 13.

The first time that he had entered here, Hiro had been tremendously impressed. In District 3, all the work that he ever did was all low-end things, like factory assembly and programming household electrical devices for the Capitol's pleasure. In Special Defense, everything was cutting-edge. In the mere six months that he had been there, Hiro had observed huge progresses in the inventions that people here had made.

They were often engineers like him and, believing that all of them shared the common goal ultimately, were willing to share their findings and creations with him. His age was of no consequence. If nothing else, it made it easier for them to accept him as a student to their field. He had encountered Professor Vogstein on one such occasion and has since then stayed in contact with her. With the amount of work that his own project took though, he didn't get to interact with as many of these like-minded geniuses as much he would have liked to.

Hiro pressed the control button on the arm of his chair, speeding himself past the laboratories. As he did, he found himself gazing longing through glass at the other engineers. They talked to one another freely, fixed together their prototypes and ran tests on them in the testing ranges. He would have loved to be in their place, but duty called him elsewhere.

There was a hall deeper into the Special Defense Centre marked as 'CYBER DEFENSE'. Guards stood at its entrance to check the identities of all those who went in. It was a thorough examination including finger-print, retinal and DNA scans. There was even one part of the process that required passing through this gate-like metal detector, which required him to move from his electronic wheelchair to a plastic one they provided. While he did understand the need for these precautions, Hiro couldn't help but feel that all of this was unnecessarily troublesome. He was probably the only researcher who entered this area in a wheelchair. How could the guards not know his face by now? But everyone in District 13 live and breathed protocol, and as a citizen here now, he was bound by the same inconveniences.

Once the checks were completed, Hiro wheeled himself in the plastic chair through a narrow, tube-like corridor. The silence that greeted him in the computer room told him quickly enough that he was alone. He let out a sigh without really meaning to, before moving himself towards the central computer. That was really a wide-stretch computer that turned into became a three-dimensional holo-screen when necessary. He had built it himself a few months ago. Like he had told the council, the computers in District 13 were too old-school to handle the Capitol-style programming.

He laid his hand on the keypad, which scanned his palm to check for identity. Numbers and figures lit up in luminous blue before him, empty gaps and broken ties reminding him of where he had left off. Sitting himself up, Hiro reached a hand towards the screen, summoning a holographic interface for him to work with.

After an hour or two of coding and uncoding the tangle of programs, he glanced up from his work to check the clock. It was 13:00, which according to the schedule tattooed to his arm, meant that it was lunch time. He sighed as he gazed at the floating mess of numbers, then down to his wheelchair. Rolling himself to the canteen was always so troublesome since it was located several floors above. Usually he got Baymax to fetch his meals for him so he could eat it while working instead, but he had lent the nurse robot to Hiccup. From the reports that he had received, Hiccup had just been fitted with his new prosthetic. He would be in intensive physiotherapy right now, so he certainly needed the nurse robot more. Hiro just told himself that he would catch his meal later, after he finished unravelling this portion of the program.

Quite expectedly, there was some stupid knot in the code – a bunch of symbols that existed in the Capitol's computer systems but not in District 13's. That meant that he needed to design and install a whole new 'computer-language' inside his computer. Of course, his work turned to be for nothing when the computer told him unapologetically that it couldn't read the new program due to lack of space in its database.

"Oh, c'mon!" Hiro was gnashing at his teeth. Jabbing a finger down at the computer screen, he growled, "I would smash you into bits if you weren't so expensive!"

The holo-computer obviously didn't care about his threat, because it just repeated to him exactly the same notice.

The boy leaned back into his chair, scowling hatefully at the floating holograms. He had always been good with the digital space – he was a genius, after all. But his real passion lay in engineering. He liked designing things; real, tangible things. He actually enjoyed building his wheelchair – the electronic one that he got to use outside the research lab, at least. He liked building his table-slash-computer, though programming it was tedious. He loved creating on the funky gizmos that he had back in District 3.

For a long time, that's how Hiro had imagined his life play out. He and Tadashi would dog themselves out in the factories of District 3 by day, and build a hundred-and-one silly inventions from metal scraps by night. It would be hard life, but it would be simple. None of them would be caught up in some complicated movement to overthrow the Capitol with the 'mythical' District 13.

That was so long ago.

During the post-Games period that he had spent in the hospital, each day had consisted of him being injected by various medications and undergoing operation after operation. He hadn't been in a coma like Hiccup, but he wished that he was. Some of the procedures didn't require putting him under morphling, which really sucked. Just looking at scars of his sutures reminded him too clearly of how he got them and how they were fixed, making him tremble uncontrollably.

He had to admit that the sight of any sharp object still made him feverish and sweaty, but the doctors that fixed him didn't care how he felt about the procedures. They had a job to do, and they did it alright. They made sure that the boy genius who held the Capitol's security system in his head had enough of functioning brain so that he could reproduce it for them. Sometimes when he was in his darker moods, Hiro toyed with the idea that the District only saved the parts of him that they felt were useful to their cause. After all, a walking boy genius probably didn't contribute much more than a crippled boy genius.

He peered at the holographic symbols bitterly. Apparently, all his self-worth was really a bunch of codes.

The boy dug into his pockets for the small device that Professor Vogstein had given him. His inner-inventor prodded him to open it up, to see what she had added to his design. It would be a nice break from the vexing programming. He checked the clock. It was 16:30. Too late for lunch, but too early for dinner. Considering that he didn't spend any time on lunch earlier, he supposed that he could have a little break and take a peek…

Then he remembered that the President's warning, and he stopped short.

Letting out a deep exhale, Hiro rolled himself over to one of side tables that held a smaller, older computer that apparently was the 'standard issue' around here. He lay the flash drive down sadly, then placed his hand the wheel and swiveled himself away.

Then just as abruptly, he swung his chair back and grabbed the drive. Shrugging, he just muttered to himself, "Eh, heck it."

He missed his meeting with the psychiatrist at 17:00, but it was fine. Hiro was happy where he was, or rather, _despite_ where he was.

* * *

He started walking from day seven on. It was actually pretty remarkable, considering how long he had been incapacitated.

The prosthetist was a very efficient worker, producing the metallic appendage just on the same day that he took the measurements. On the third day, Hiccup was hopping around with crutches for balance in the physiotherapist's office. By day five, he had upgraded from two crutches to just one. By day seven, he was discharged, limping away with his new prosthetic without extra supports.

To be honest, his rapid progress was purely because he had a motivation for doing so. He needed to find Toothless, and since no one, from the doctors to nurses to Hiro himself, was going to tell him anything, he had to find him himself.

Hiccup was assigned a compartment of his own that was located near the infirmary. From what he understood from the physiotherapist and the prosthetist, he would still need to see them again from time to time to check on his recovery. All these appointments would be displayed on the printed schedule on his arm – a novelty that he had not experienced prior to discharge.

There was this plastic band hooked to his arm stating 'recuperating', as if his prosthetic and his clumsy limp wasn't enough proof. There was also another special band on his arm with a little scanning code on it. Apparently, this band was related to his food intake, which had so far been the most complicated part about his adaptation to normal life. He had been taking his basic nutrients via tube for the last six months, so the doctor warned him that his stomach wasn't quite ready for solid food just yet.

Hiccup started his first 'normal' day at District 13 on day eight. Though the schedule on his arm stated clearly enough where he was supposed to go and what he was supposed to do, he didn't actually know the locations of those places. Hiro had promised to that he would be around to help after his discharge from the infirmary, but the boy hadn't showed up. Hiccup wasn't really that surprised. When he had asked for the other boy during his time in the hospital, the staff had told him that Hiro was involved in some kind of special project that took up a lot of his time. He was a genius, after all, and Thirteen needed his abilities.

Fortunately, the nurse robot that Hiro had attached him like an unnecessary appendage was not as unnecessary as Hiccup had assumed. Baymax, as the inflated creature had so introduced itself several times, had acted as Hiccup's crutch and occasionally cushion (every time he slipped). The robot was apparently programmed to be tirelessly eager in rendering assistance and had been more than happy to lead his handicapped patient wherever he needed to go. It also enjoyed reminding him to take breaks from his walks and sadistically adored scanning his body at inappropriate intervals.

It got pretty embarrassing to have the marshmallow-like, bumbling automaton tagging along, so Hiccup pretty much stowed Baymax into his red suit case after day ten. People would stop giving him pointed looks after that. Or so he thought.

On day eleven, he was mostly preoccupied with worry about tripping himself up. The prosthetic, which was more like an clunky chunk of metal glued together and bore no resemblance to a foot, was not the most comfortable thing in the world to walk with. His stump (even thinking that word made him nausea actually) had also started to swell due to its flesh rubbing against the metal brace. Adjustments had been made with prosthetist, but no matter how often he went, Hiccup felt that the prosthetic still wasn't quite right. It was always too tight, or too loose, or too unstable. If there was some way that he could get hold of some tools, he figured that he could fix it up himself. That way he wouldn't need to bother the busy doctors anymore. He made a mental note to ask Hiro the next time he saw him – _if_ he saw him.

By day twelve, Hiccup had worked up enough confidence to talk to the people around him. He tried chatting to the other attendees at one emergency protocol briefing, as well as those at the basic physics class. But other than crisp factual responses, no one really paid attention to him. By day thirteen, he found that total number of words he uttered to other people had been capped at double digits. By day fourteen, he had admitted to himself that he was being ignored, blatantly and unapologetically.

While this sobering fact was bitter to swallow at first, Hiccup had to admit that being ignored was much better than being actively hunted down and facing imminent death, so he wasn't overtly upset. From what he had observed, District 13 citizens weren't all cool and cold to one another, so perhaps they have yet to warm up to a stranger like him. In time, he hoped that the awkwardness would die. Till then, he decided to distract himself by the task that he found of the most importance; finding Toothless.

Hiccup was no stranger to snooping. He had always been scampering around District 2 on some self-made mission. Despite the stump aches that he got from long walking, he made an effort to check out the various buildings one by one, using the holographic map in Baymax's database to trace out his journey each day. He crossed out the places that he deemed unlikely to hold a twenty-six feet long dragon, before moving on to the next place. His exploration times were usually during meal times, rest times and baths times; all times of where dozens of District citizens were hoarded together and his lack of socialization (and others' lack of socialization with him) was most evident. He could do with a few less uncomfortable silences, so he gladly traded them for some 'adventure'.

Of course, it wasn't as easy as he had imagined. District 13, though contained almost entirely underground, was huge. The routes from the great hall to the compartments to the departments were all one big maze, and even with the navigation tools that Baymax had armed him with, Hiccup found himself getting terribly lost, even not making it for his assigned lessons sometimes. Every day was an exhausting one. Whenever he accidentally activated Baymax, he would be given the same pointless advice about limiting his 'exercise' while still on recovery.

But Hiccup didn't like dwelling on his recovery. It was a painful subject, so he continued his searches.

Things only changed around day seventeen when Hiccup woke up one morning, slipped his arm under the tattooing contraption and found that he had something new printed on his schedule: _14:00 – Defense Department, Classroom 11B._ He had never been assigned to the defense department before – for health reasons, he had assumed – so he reported to the destination with much anticipation.

Most of the people were already sitting behind the polished tables of the classroom when he had arrived. They were older and bigger than him, and since he didn't know any of them, he slipped into a seat near the back. That was usually enough to ensure that he was left alone for the rest of the session. However, eyes followed him as he strolled to his desk and stayed with him even after he sat down. He could see that the other students, if these uniformed people students were indeed students, were muttering to each other, frowning. He creased his brows at them, wondering what exactly the problem was.

"Um, you don't belong here."

He spun his head in the direction of the voice, finding himself looking at the lean soldier sitting next to him. The tag on his uniform read 'Crane'. "Sorry?"

"Err,-" the soldier seemed quite sorry for opening his mouth, as if the phrase had slipped out unintentionally "-you don't belong _here_. Like this place. You're a rookie, aren't you? I mean,-" he waved a hand at Hiccup's standard-issue garb "-you don't even have uniform yet. This is a specialized class. For upper ranks, you know."

"Oh," Hiccup turned crimson. That must have explained the weird looks. "My schedule just said classroom 11B."

"This is classroom 11E," a soldier from the row in front of him said very quietly. Hiccup had noticed her watching him very carefully since his entry to the classroom. The military training he had when he was younger told him that by the colors on her shoulder, her rank was higher than most of the others in the class, even Soldier Crane. She was well-built and strong, and the hard training she put herself through was evident by the muscles bulging through her uniform. "11B's a lot further down this floor. I can you take you there."

"Oh, it's fine. I can-" When the senior-ranking soldier narrowed her eyes at him, Hiccup realized that it wasn't an offer. He gulped. "Okay."

After he thanked Soldier Crane for the pointing out his error, Hiccup followed the other soldier through the classroom. She quite reminded him of the Peacekeepers from his home town - serious, severe and humorless. He caught the name on her tag – 'Tigress'. Well, by her ferocity, he supposed that it was appropriate.

After she had led him up to another insipid classroom that looked nearly identical to the one that they had been in earlier, he had planned to duck his head down, thank her and scuttle into the room. But she held him back, glaring down at him, before saying, "You don't belong here."

He glanced up and down the corridor, then said, "Well, yeah, that's because I'm supposed to be _in_ the classroom, not out-"

"I don't mean that," she cut him off, folding her arms. Her eyes were smoldering, bearing down on him. "Everyone here knows who you are. If we had any say about it, you wouldn't be allowed ten feet around the defense department – or ten feet around anywhere, actually."

Dread pooled in his stomach, but confusion induced him to say, "I don't understand."

Soldier Tigress straightened up her arms, pulling back her sleeves. He saw brawny arms that could easily snap his own into two, but he also saw long slashes and dark marks etched on her toughened skin. He had a chilling feeling that those were not her only ones.

"No one here has ever had good experiences with Peacekeepers and no number of years in District 13 lets you forget them," she told him as she drew her sleeves back over the scars, her tone ominous. "You've done nothing to deserve our privileges, and the history of people like _you_ with people like _us_ is an ugly one. So don't expect anyone to go out of their way to welcome you here, because you're _not_ welcome." The last word was punctuated with the clenching of her fist below his chin, causing Hiccup to take a step back. "We're watching you, Two, and the minute you give us a reason to doubt you, we'll crush you."

The soldier eventually decided that he was sufficiently intimidated, so she left him at the classroom door, sneering as she went back down the corridor.

Hiccup didn't even know that he had been holding his breath until he started seeing spots in his vision. Sucking in air and wheezing it out immediately, he hit the entry button on the side of the classroom door, slipping into the classroom. Every seat save one at the back had been filled, and all eyes were latched onto his small frame immediately. As he staggered his way to that lone seat, he felt the gazes burning into his every movement, and he knew now that they didn't just see a useless little crippled boy, as people in District 2 would. In him, they saw the enemy.

It didn't matter what crazy things he had done in the Hunger Games. He didn't even know if people in District 13 watched the Games actually, since it was primarily Capitol propaganda. Even if they did, it was six months ago. They would have forgotten by now. All they saw was the son of District 2's pro-Capitol mayor. A possible spy. A ticking bomb.

Even after the educator had entered the room and the class had begun, the hair at the back Hiccup's neck was still standing. Hostility was markedly obvious in all words and glances made his way. Suspicion was reeking out from each of his peers.

He wished fervently that he could be ignored again, but he knew they would grant him no such privilege. It was like the Hunger Games all over again, with hunters on his tail, watching his every move.

* * *

Ralph Reckit was considered enormously large for a boy of his age and background - especially his background. Anyone who knew anything about District 11 would know that it was called the District of 'Bountiful Harvest' appropriately, for it did possess lush orchards and large plantation fields. The bounty however was not for its citizens to savor, going straight to the Capitol instead. Needless to say, the people starved.

Being the most populous District in Panem, Eleven was naturally, by proportion, the poorest. Many of its citizens spent their nights sleeping on the streets and dying of sickness simply because they couldn't afford to live otherwise. The pay was meagre and the work was hard. It was no wonder then that thoughts of rebellion spread more swiftly here than anywhere else. Most of the sunken-eyed critters had nothing to lose and everything to gain, so why not rebel?

That said, the gains were few. Spikes in rebellion were clamped down quickly as they came, for the Peacekeepers were almost omniscience when it came to hunting down traitors. They seemed to know about all plans, target locations and primary instigators; always one step ahead of the insurgent.

And it was because they were. The Peacekeeping force had eyes everywhere, and they paid their spies handsomely – compared to the average District 11-er, at least.

Ralph grew up in a home wealthier than that his peers, but he never really understood the source of his family's income until it was too late. He had met many Peacekeepers as a boy, for they often came to his father's home and spoke with him, but he did not understand what had been corresponded. He only knew that the Peacekeepers would pass his father coins along during such meetings, and these would pay for the rich meals that they ate at the table. Ralph grew to be proud and strong, and he was ashamed to admit he had enjoyed using his large size to frighten his peers when he was younger. They were like worms compared to him, and he savored his advantage in his size.

That was until his father died. No one was sure how it happened, but a pommel in the head with a lead pipe hardly seemed like an accident. However, without someone to tattle on it, the Peacekeepers had no idea who did it. No one in town was sorry for to see Reckit Senior go, and certainly nobody cared what happened to his unkempt, unlovely offspring. The case remained unsolved. Ralph didn't have a mother as far as he knew, so the incident landed him straight in the children's home.

Even amongst the orphans, the repute of his predecessor stayed with him. People shunned him actively, perhaps because of his size or perhaps they were afraid that he would sneak on them to the Peacekeepers, the way his father did. Parents told their children to stay away from him, and teachers always went out of their way to punish him – a childish vengeance, perhaps. In the fields, he was always given the hardest, most grueling assignments, and when he was done with those, his work was criticized. He had never been invited to the little harvest festivals the District people held every now and then, and he never tasted the delicious pies that they baked. When he was around fourteen, the orphanage finally managed to cook up a half-baked excuse to throw him out, and he spent the rest of years sleeping in the dump. Anywhere else, he would be pelted with stones – not all metaphorical.

He had accumulated quite a number of names to his own, including 'brute', 'monster', 'freak', and 'bad guy'. The most prominent was 'Wreck-it Ralph', because that all he was good at – ruining things. Or so they said.

Because of his large strength and blocky size, the people of District 11 could easily convince themselves that they were doing nothing wrong. It wasn't as if people like him could get hurt, could they? And if he did, did it matter? He was just the bad guy. In him, they saw the enemy - like the Peacekeepers. But the white-clads were untouchable whereas he was open-range.

Weaker guys might have buckled, but perhaps the District folk were right in thinking that Ralph was strong. Careful self-reflection in his teens led him to altering his behavior to those surrounding him. He tried to polite and friendly, but that just earned him jeers and sneers. He tried to helpful, like offering to take on more work or do jobs that a strong fella like him could, but this lead to people accusing him of him plotting sabotage. They made clear their opinion of him, and that was that they didn't want him around. Should he lash out in retaliation, more fingers would point his way and voices would scream, "See! See! Didn't we tell you what a bad guy he is?"

No one was sorry to see him reaped for the Games. No one, but his only friend. She was dead, by the way. You can thank the Capitol for that.

It shouldn't be a surprise that he liked District 13. It was a clean slate for him. Here, there was no amassed mean-spiritedness, no fear of traitorhood. His freakishly large size didn't represent a past betrayal to their society, but instead potential. They never told him to sleep in the trash. They didn't pour insults over him (at least, ones that he didn't deserve. Military language was very colorful). He was singled for specialized training a few weeks after he started joining army exercises. They told him that in time, he could become one of their finest soldiers. He could become a hero.

And he had friends. Well, they were more like acquaintances for now, but Ralph was sure that continued courteous interaction would keep people liking him. Though a majority of citizens here were born and bred in the District, quite a number were refugees like him (except that they had all escaped their Capitol-ruled Districts by foot and he was thrown through some weird teleportation-portal-thingy). They sympathized with his situation and were eager to help him fit in.

"Hey Ralph! Hi! How's special forces training?" was how he was greeted at the barracks canteen. The army food here, though by no means stellar, was actually tasty considering the limited ingredients in it. The chef was a weedy little man, as stingy as a miser, but he sure could cook.

"Oh, hi, Po," Ralph answered as he pushed his canteen tray along the metal rails, in line with all the other soldiers queuing for their meals with their own trays. He thought about the muscles aches that he had acquired and the bruises on his ribs. He was grateful for his new life, but he wasn't stupid enough to think that everything was sunshine and daisies. "Training was back-breaking, insanely painful and actively demoralizing. The lieutenant seemed to be in a bad mood today."

"Wow, that's sounds awesome!" The chubby fellow behind the food counter wasn't being sarcastic. For real. Over the course of the five months that Ralph had been in the defense department, he had come to realize that whether his comments were good or bad, Soldier Po would always think Special Forces was inexorably awesome. Ralph privately theorized that it was due to the traumatic circumstances that the other fellow had gone through in his childhood.

Through a conversation with the other boy, Ralph had learnt that Po had been separated from his mother when both of them had tried running away to the fabled District 13. He had been a little more than a baby then, and he wouldn't have survived in the wilderness if his adopted father, who too was attempting the dangerous journey to what was hopeful a haven from the Capitol's arm, hadn't found him. Now, Mr. Ping was the head chef of the defense department. Though he technically had clerk duties elsewhere, Po often assisted his father in food service. Ralph usually tried to get the chubby soldier to serve him meals rather than the chef himself - he was more generous in meal portions.

"I'm going to join you guys someday," Po told him while pouring the gruel into Ralph's tray. It was a weird, gooey mix of foods, but it tasted fine actually. "Just wait and see."

Other Special Forces members usually told Po that such was unlikely. He had a strange medical condition that made him permanently obese, no matter his nutrition intake, and he needed to consume high levels of calories in order to function. He also wasn't very fit. There was no way that he would get into Special Forces.

But Ralph wasn't one to throw cold water. He had his life change for the better, so he wasn't going to kill anyone else's hopes of changing theirs. "Well, I look forward to being your senior officer then."

"Hah! That's what you think." Po drew himself upright, blubber and all, raising the soup spoon up like a sword. "I shall be-" he waited a few seconds for a dramatic pause "-a legendary Kung Fu warrior!"

Ralph quirked an eyebrow as he set took the utensils of the rack, placing it on his tray. "What's 'Kung Fu'?"

"I have no idea." Po shrugged as he filled a bowl of salad for the soldier, handing it over to him. Then he raised the spatula again, his free hand raised towards the ceiling, declaring theatrically, "But it shall be awesome that it would make awesome-sauce into less-awesome-watered-down-gravy!"

"Po! The queue is growing!" The chef's snappish tone shot straight of the kitchen. It was as if Mr. Ping could see through the metal doors. "Serve the customers!"

"Oh, right." The chubby soldier sheepishly lowered his flabby arms under the glare of the other soldiers waiting in line. Nodding a goodbye to Ralph, he scurried off to serve their needs.

Ralph grabbed his tray and moved along to the benches-side of the canteen. It was generally a place of socialization, so it was expected for him to greet other soldiers that he passed by even if he didn't remember all their names. He didn't really mind doing it all that much, for it wasn't difficult to return a smile when someone else was giving one. In District 11, this would have been an impossible feat.

Pleasantness however was not an attitude he observed from all his fellow comrades. For the first time that day, Ralph spotted a small figure limping towards a far-off table. The boy was strapped a uniform that barely seemed to fit him – not surprising, given his wire-like form. The tray in his hands shook in his wobbly hands, stopping only after the boy had placed it on the table. With a sigh, the boy tried to seat himself down on the bench, only to have trouble lifting his metallic leg over it. It was then that Ralph realized he actually knew this kid.

He had his own assigned seating with his platoon-mates, but Ralph decided that he could live with a little variation this evening. He strolled down the aisle, straight up to the near-empty table. The other boy's head was tilted down towards his own measly portions, so he didn't notice Ralph's presence until he cleared his throat.

The boy lifted his gaze towards the unexpected company, body all tensed up and expression wary. His left hand even gripped onto his knife, as if the puny utensil would be of any protection against the larger boy's build.

"Anyone taking this spot, kid?" was Ralph's casual greeting.

The boy blinked at him, considering these words for a moment. Without relaxing, he answered, "No. I don't think anyone would want to take it, anyway." The last bit was spoken with a bitter note.

Ralph was undaunted by the cold attitude. "Good. More room for me."

He plonked himself down on the bench across the scrawny lad. His dining buddy didn't appear massively enthusiastic about his presence, choosing to dig his spoon into a more watered-down version of Ralph's gruel, eyes still downturned.

"Doesn't seem like they gave you much," Ralph noted out loud upon seeing the tiny portions on the other lad's tray. "Would that actually be enough?"

"I don't eat a lot," was the boy's answer as he glancing at one of the bands around his wrist. "Still not used to fully solid food, actually."

"Oh. That sucks," said Ralph as sympathetically as he could. He himself didn't have any problems with digestion during his recuperation, but the kid had been sick longer than he had. "How long has it been since you woke up?"

"Seventeen day, give or take." The boy shrugged listlessly. He looked up at Ralph, his mouth twisted in a critical frown. "You do know who I am, right?"

"Yeah, um." Ralph's memories brought him back to the Arena. An uncalled-for sense of sadness and anxiousness rose to his chest, but he stifled it quickly and just snatched up the information he needed. "You're that kid who rode the muttation. The black one that looks like a bat."

"That's all you remember about me?" The boy was on the edge of his seat – literally. It was like he was prepared to make a break for it.

Ralph scratched his chin. "You injured your leg very badly."

"Heh." A sardonic smile appeared on the lad's face. "I had help with that. Lots of help." Then abruptly, the smile vanished, replace by a ghostly-white expression. His eyes were almost popping out of their sockets, but they were not looking at Ralph.

"What're you-" the bigger boy followed the gaze that went over his right shoulder, where he saw another thin figure hunched over another empty table staring at them. Her red curls barely shielded the frost in her eyes. "Oh. Her."

"Yep." The kid's voice sounded hoarse. "Her."

"She's a rare sight around here," Ralph told him, swinging himself back to his meal. "She usually takes meals in another building. Doesn't like rubbing shoulders with people who throw her in jail."

"I see," his acquaintance squeaked. His posture had become crooked, as if he was trying to hide himself behind the tray. By how he swallowed and gulped, Ralph assumed that it wasn't really working. "There's a jail in District 13?"

"Yep." Ralph wolfed down his slice of bread, before elaborating, "Just for law-breakers, you know."

"What did she get in for?" The other boy slowly straightened himself up after deeming his actions pointless. His eyes still darted nervously in her direction every now and then.

Ralph snorted. "You should ask her yourself."

The smaller boy shuddered. "Er, no thanks. I don't think she likes me. Not that anyone else likes me, for that matter," he muttered that addition in a lower voice. Turning back to Ralph, he probed, still skeptical, "You do remember which District I'm from, right?"

Ralph did. He made it point to remember all the Districts of the other survivors. The ice girl was from Twelve. Fire-hair was from Five. Hiro was from Three. "You're from Two."

"Yeah. Home to Careers and Peacekeepers alike. Not exactly 'friendlies' to the District that we're residing in, or even the District you're from," the boy pointed out, the cynicism barely hiding the insecurity. "You sure you still want to sit here?"

So Ralph might have attended less than three-quarters of the school than he was supposed to, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that District 2 had always shared a special 'closeness' to the Capitol. Peacekeepers had to come from somewhere, after all. He knew that his fellow soldiers held great anger towards the white guards and their masters. But he also knew what it was like to be treated like the bad guy, to not be given a chance to prove himself.

"Well, us survivors gotta stick together," he told the other boy. He couldn't even remember the kid's name. He might have never known it. But one thing was true – this boy and him shared one thing that no one else here, besides three others, had. The horror of the Games.

The boy managed a watery smile. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

22:30 was technically lights out for the citizens of District 13, unless you were the unlucky one eighth of the population that was on night-duty that day.

She might have been, but she never attended any real training, so she wouldn't know. Bath time had been at 22:00. The ink they used to tattoo the schedules on their arms was special such that it only washed away at that time. During the morning and afternoon, it was impossible to remove. If Merida was more of a scientist, this might have interested her. Instead, her interest had turned to more important things, like trying to guess where that retching sound was coming from while sitting cross-legged on a toilet seat.

If she was avid follower of rules, Meirda would be buried under the machine-produced, uninspired blanket and with her head rested on the machine-produced, uninspired pillow, safe inside her compartment. But tonight, the hollow cell that was her compartment had started closing in on her again. Unable to sleep, she had found herself in a staring contest with her closet, half-expecting a giant snarling bear to emerge from it. So in her night clothes, Merida fled to one of her favorite hiding spots, out of sight from patrolling night guards.

There were no bathrooms in the compartment, because it was more economical for residents to share them. Night visitors there were few, and someone would have washed up the place after bath time, so the place was a relative clean, peaceful and, most importantly, brightly-lit. She didn't even need to take a morphling pill before drifting off in one cubicle. That was, till she was rudely awoken.

Grumpily shifting herself on the toilet seat, Merida's blurry vision flitted about as she tried to locate the puking sounds. Pressing her head against the cubicles wall, she decided that it lay towards her right. Slipping herself off the toilet seat, she croched herself down and craned her next forward, so that she could look through the gap under cubicle walls. From her view, she noted the vomiting individual was kneeled before a toilet bowl three cubicles down. There was a metal prosthetic on his left leg, just under his knee cap.

The stench of gastric fluids mixed with half-digested food wafted her way, and it became clear to her that this was no longer a conducive hideout. Yet when she unlocked her cubicle door and emerged from it, she found herself moving towards the source of the retching instead of away. Stopping before the door of interest, Merida pushed it open slightly, letting it swing inwards. The boy sprawled before the toilet bowl paused his regurgitation process to acknowledge the person standing behind him.

When their gazes met, Merida spoke first, "What are you doing here?"

It was almost funny how he quickly scrambled away from her, one hand over his mouth and another gripping on the door, as if he wanted to slam it shut. Her firm palm on the metal panel prevented him from doing that, however. His emerald eyes flashed with alarm, like a deer caught in the headlights, and she was almost a little sorry for him. Almost.

Coughing, he managed to compose himself, croaking, "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I asked first," Merida answered shortly.

"I wasn't aware that there were rules to how questions are answered." Being scared didn't cut out the snarkiness in him, it appeared. But he was scared at least. He had to lower the hand from his mouth grip onto the rim of the toilet – the only structure that kept him from keeling over. "Besides, this is the guys' bathroom. I definitely have more reason to be here than you."

The redhead scowled, and that caused the boy to pull himself back, his knees drawn up close to his body. With a roll of her eyes, she said, "Most guys use the urinals rather than cubicles – compared to girls, anyway - and it never occurred to guards to look for me here. So I hang out here sometimes."

He assessed warily for a moment, before asking, puzzled, "You've got guards looking for you?"

She cursed herself for letting that slip, but she supposed that he'd find out eventually. "I'm pretty notorious here in District 13."

"Huh," was all he replied, and it was barely audible. He grabbed some of the toilet paper, unrolling it slowly piece by piece before making the tear, then using it to dab his stained mouth. He repeated the same action to wipe his hands, before tossing both crumpled sheets in the toilet. He did all this without taking his eyes off her.

"So, why are you here?" Merida set in the question before he could inquire further. She didn't know why she told him anything, actually.

He gestured at the toilet bowl reeking of vomit, wearing a plaintive expression. "I think it's fairly obvious, isn't it?"

"I didn't know that amputations caused vomiting," she said without really thinking.

The tactless mention of the injury brought back the pallor of the boy's face and he reeled forward, positioning his mouth before the toilet bowl just in case. Merida felt a twinge of guilt in her heart, but she quickly replaced it with self-disgust. Why should she feel sorry about it? So she might have caused it (though she would have to fight that out with Hiro) but that was all part of the Games. It was the Capitol's fault, not hers.

Conscience told her that her fault or not, callous allusions was still insensitive. But _c'mon!_ Recovering wimp or not, this kid was from District 2. He should be grateful even if he was fed slop and forced to live in a sty like a pig at Thirteen. _Jings Crivens, help ma bob!_ They gave him a bloomin' prosthetic! It wasn't as if she owed him any favors.

Apparently, he was not going to throw up again, and the creases on his forehead relaxed, though his face was still as a white as sheet. Watching her, yet not quite looking at her, the Two boy said in his nasally voice, "Actually, it's just that my stomach's still not used to the food in the defense canteen. Or any normal food, really."

"Oh." Despite herself, Merida could empathize. A day or two after the Games ended and she was still stuck at the infirmary, they had to put her under this sedative that made her throw up five times in a span of eight hours after the operation for her arm. Some bad reaction with her body, they had said. They had to change it to morphling after that, and since then she found it hard to go a day with at least one dose. Her diet was kind of messed up for the following weeks during recovery too, and she shuddered involuntarily as the vestiges of nauseas attacked her memory.

"Well, I think I've thrown up my entire dinner – whatever strange substance it might have been," the boy commented wryly. He reached an arm towards the flush handle, and fumbled a little as he tried to stretch his arm towards it. Merida considered helping him out, but then he finally managed the task by rocking his body forward and smacking the handle down.

"Right," he murmured to himself just over the flushing sound. "Now to get up." He gazed down at his sprawled form, a calculated look towards the metal contraption on his foot. At a closer angle, Merida realized that the prosthetic looked more like a giant metal prong rather than a leg. Were doctors even _trying_ when they made it?

The Two boy tried to heave himself up by pressing one hand against the rim of the toilet bowl and the other against the wall. His good leg was bent at an angle, with the sole against the floor. He succeeded in lifting himself up slightly, but slipped when the metal foot skidded on the bathroom tiles, making him land back on his rear. He huffed in pained annoyance, before trying again, literally clawing at his surroundings.

After watching two more failed attempts, Merida became far too impatient to care about how much she wasn't supposed to care. She held a hand towards him. He stared up at the offering, not quite trusting.

Merida might have flinched at his reaction, but she just let herself frown and answer his thoughts with a hiss, "You could just sit here for the rest of tonight."

After a wordless moment of contemplation, he took her hand. Merida could feel his fingers tremble against her hand as she hoisted him up. The strength of her arm must have reminded him of something unpleasant, because he yanked his hand away the minute he was back on his feet. She could guess by how he recoiled from her what he was thinking of.

Nonetheless, he still bothered to express his gratitude in stutters. "T-t-thanks."

She was feeling rather peeved - though with him or herself, she wasn't sure. Sniffing a little, Merida remarked emotionlessly, "Now I've got puke on my hands."

He conspicuously shuffled away from her.

Both of them washed their hands at the basin, the only thing breaking silence being the sound of water hitting the metal panel. Merida stared fiercely forward, refusing to look at the boy in the eye, lest that start a conversation that she was unwilling to have. In the corner of her vision, however, she noticed that his pale countenance was transforming itself into an unpleasant shade of green.

"Still feel like throwing up?" she asked in a rather bored manner, drawing her brows together to make herself appear more irritated. And why shouldn't she? _He_ was an irritation. A _pest_. He was a neon billboard of everything she was trying to forget.

Uneasily, the boy admitted, "Just the feeling of it. I don't think there's anything left in my stomach."

Merida had to resist the part of her mind that wanted to shove his head into the toilet bowl and tell him to stay there till he drowned in his own fluids, but she also was fervently repelling the part of her that wanted to offer comfort.

She settled on what she hoped was a good middle-ground. "You should see a doctor."

"I probably should," he muttered in a way that meant that he had no intention of doing so.

"Try to be grateful," she rebuked him. "They're trying to help you, not kill you, no matter what it looks like." That comment might have been tinted with her own experiences. When the hospital strapped her broken arm to some kind of straightening-machine, she was certain they were all a sadist lot of mad scientists. She hadn't really changed her opinion yet.

"I-It isn't that," he stammered. His bony fingers had tightened themselves along his elbows, nails digging into his own clammy skin. "I just don't like bothering them. They've got other patients here and I'm a waste of resources."

Privately, Merida baulked at hearing him describe himself that way. She wouldn't have hesitated to tell him such in his face before, but to actually hear him say that about himself was, well … let's just say it felt unpleasant.

After a brief inner debate, she made her decision. She didn't really like this conclusion, but she felt that she wasn't going to get much sleep if she didn't do this. "Well, you don't need to _see_ them if you don't want to."

He gave her sidelong look. "What do you mean?"

The redhead jerked her chin towards the exit to the male bathroom. "C'mon."

She could tell that he didn't really want to follow her, but he didn't really want to refuse her either. Despite being unfit compared to all the military trainees, Merida was still stronger than him. In matter of fact, he was so underweight at the moment that she was sure that she could pick him up and toss him if she wanted to. He was fully aware of that, and perhaps that fright was what kept him compliant.

Months of sneaking around had given Merida a natural instinct in avoiding the night patrols. She wouldn't be thrown into jail for breaking curfew without cause, but she wasn't going to be assigned community service either. Washing other people's dishes was such a pain.

Sadly, her fellow moonlighter wasn't not a stealthy as she was in his movements. His illness kept him from darting around as swiftly as she could, and his prosthetic made a distinct 'clunk' every time it hit the polished floor.

"Where are we going?" he whispered nervously while both of them hid from a pair of passing soldiers.

"I know where the medical stores are," she told him, gesturing for him to follow her after the patrollers had moved along. "Bet we can get you some medicine for the nausea."

"Isn't that like stealing?" he commented, his annoyingly whiny voice become more high-pitched with alarm.

"No." She wrinkled her nose at him. "It's called self-prescription."

He opened his mouth to retort, but Merida shushed him as they arrived at a fork in the corridor. There were sounds of speaking on the path ahead - the one that went past the meeting rooms. That meant that there were occupants within one of the rooms, and its door was open too.

There were alternative routes to the medical stores, but Merida didn't want to take a detour. She wanted to go back to bed as soon as they could. She was certain that she was tired out enough to fall asleep before the shadows haunted her again. So, with a wave of her hand, she beckoned the Two boy to follow her. Both teenagers took controlled steps towards down the hall, scrutinizing their surroundings cautiously. As she had predicted, one of the meeting room doors was wide open, light streaming out. Both of them pressed themselves near the wall, approaching the doorway carefully. The bits of the dialogue from within emerged from the room too:

" _-the drama and the tragedy. I doubt any of us will forget these anytime soon. If you want to poll on what your favorite years of Hungers Games are, just remember to dial these numbers-"_

Hunger Games?

It was then that Merida realized that she recognized the speaker, and that this was no meeting conversation at all.

"What are you doing?" was what the Two boy hissed at her as she walked straight into the light. He tried to grab her arm, but Merida batted his hand away, entering the room. She could hear him hobbling behind her in anxiousness.

It was fortunate for them both that the meeting room was empty. The last occupants of this place were uncharacteristically careless for the usually frugal District 13 citizen, it would seem, for the television screen hanging from the corner of the room was still switched on, playing the live feed from the Capitol.

Playing Capitol television in a District that hated it so bitterly seemed counterintuitive, but District 13 took to the practice as a form of information collection, as well as a method of educating their citizens on the depravity of their rivals. Merida had once sat through a session in the education centre where they literally spent the entire hour analyzing a particular advertisement by the Capitol. 'The visual medium is a bazooka in the battle for the mind', the educator had said without a trace of humor, despite how silly the statement sounded. She took a nap through session, so she didn't honestly learn that much.

As Merida had thought, the one on the screen was none other than Mike Wazowski himself, dressed in his signature lime-green. He was standing before a glittering screen and a glowing stage. The screaming color cutting into her pupils just barely covered the fact that it was too night time at the Capitol.

" _And now folks, to kick start this year's Victory Tour, we're going straight to – oh, which District is it again?"_ The presenter made an exaggerated frown, obviously a playful show rather than actual forgetfulness. The camera angle was changed, such that he could be shown speaking to the audience seated at the Capitol, one hand cupped behind his ear. _"C'mon, people, help me out a bit, which District are we looking at?"_

The yelling from the crowd was indistinct, but Mike pretended that he understood it.

" _Ah! That's right! We're going straight to District 2 folks, home to the winner of the 74_ _th_ _Hunger Games!"_ One glittering screen next to Mike Wazowski began morph into a splatter of color, before the pixels dissipated and a clear image was produced. A door - the kind that you might find on a nice, well-to-do house at the merchant district back at District 5 – was shown. _"Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together to welcome our latest victor, Astrid Hofferson!"_

The crowds went wild as the house door swung open on the screen and revealed a face that Merida saw too often in her dreams. It usually came after her with an axe.

The District 2 girl was wearing a dainty blue dress decorated with bright yellow streamers, a jarring contrast to the metallic guards on her shoulders and spikes on her belt. Her golden hair was tied back into a single braid behind her head and a spike-studded band rested above her brow. She shot a winning smile towards the cameras, which sent the Capitol crowds in a further frenzy. Without even knowing it, Merida's hands had balled into fists.

The presenter asked the young victor some questions, but Merida fell deaf to these at the sound of the sharp inhale from her right. Twisting her neck towards him, she found that that the Two boy was staring at the screen with his jaw hanging loose.

She wondered scornfully what was entranced him so – the hypnotic glare of the screen, or the stunning appearance of his district mate. She wouldn't put it past him to have some kind of attraction towards the blonde girl. Hadn't he bargained with Hiro to save her life? Well, his dream girl was back in his home town living the life, and he was stuck here, throwing up his meals and hobbling around like an old man. What a poor little hormonal _doowally_.

"You're a lot like her."

Merida blinked. She could have pretended that she had imagined his words if he hadn't continued.

"She was always top in Career school – the youngest ever to be so." His eyes were fixed on the screen, a sad longing in his gaze. "She wasn't just cut-out for it physically. She really believed it. Honor, glory, heroism - she lived and breathed the stuff. I tried all my life to be someone like her, but that didn't really work out." He made a slight chuckle at himself. "I'm no warrior. Not exactly the muscular type, you see. But you are. You're a fighter. You remind me a lot of her that way, scariness included."

It was supposed to be a sentimental, sincere little sharing, scented with a little homesickness and sorrow. But to Merida, it just made something in her snap.

Before she really knew what she was doing, a low growl had left her lips and her palms were spread open, shoving the boy hard against the wall. Her arms pinned down him by the collar bones, almost pressing against his throat. From the top of her lungs, she hollered in his face, "HOW DARE YOU?"

The way his skull hit collided with the metal wall must have hurt, because he winced. Guilt trickled into Merida's soul, but her heart hardened as his words played again in her head. _'Honor, glory, heroism', 'scariness', 'warrior'…_ She gritted her teeth together.

The shock in his expression gave way to incredulity. "What do-"

"I'M NOTHING LIKE HER!" she screeched at him. He tried to pull away, but Merida was held him down too well. "GET THAT? I'M NOTHING LIKE HER! DON'T YOU DARE COMPARE US!"

A rational part of her berated her for giving away their position, but unfortunately ,she wasn't feeling very rational right now. She screamed at the boy writhing in her grip till her voice grew hoarse. Even then, she didn't let him go until the guards came running in and pulled her off him at last. As they dragged her away, she still was shouting at him, promising him excruciating pain should he ever, ever commit that dire mistake again.

She must have been sedated, because she found herself waking up to the unpleasant stench of antiseptic and paper sheets. Her body was strapped to the bed, but her arms weren't. Both were just hooked on to half-a-dozen tubes. Merida almost laughed when she recognized the drip that contained morphling. So all she needed to get the relief she wanted was just by flipping her lid? She should have done this sooner.

Before she drifted back to drug-induced wonderland, Merida couldn't help but reflect on the blow-up. She could imagine her mother scolding her over such terrible behavior. _'Losing her temper and throwing tantrum! Such acts are not befitting of a lady!'_ She played the words with her mother's sharp tone in her head, and it made a smile a little. That faded quickly after she remembered why she lost her temper in the first place.

Perhaps attacking the boy was uncalled-for, but Merida couldn't feel completely sorry about it. In that simple rambling of his, he had hit a nerve.

She was supposed to be the victor. She was supposed to be the one going home with the crown on her head and her fate in her hands. She was supposed to be bringing glory and honor to her District. She had volunteered herself into the Hunger Games for all these reasons, and she achieved none. She had lost her home, she had lost her dignity, and she was probably losing her sanity.

And who was the victor? Who was the one with the crown and the honor? The Career from the Peacekeeping District, who was apparently just strong, smart and hot-blooded as she was.

They were nothing alike. She would never let them be.

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **The depression phase continues. At the same time, the Tours begin. According to the THG Books, Victory Tours occur almost in stark in the middle of two Hunger Games, which is why I fast-fowarded the whole story to be 6 months after the 74** **th** **Hunger Games.**

 **Kung Fu Panda cameos! Yay! Don't know how important they are yet, so don't freak. I still haven't watched KP3, so don't spoil it for me.**

 **So I finally decided that Ralph should have little backstory. Almost all characters have backstories, really. Just a matter of writing them out…**

 **The reason why Hiccup and Merida watch the livefeed of Astrid's Tour start beginning at night is because the Catching Fire movie showed Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tours starting during night time too, so I went along with it.**

 **Give Merida a hug if you dare. Oh, Hiro and Hiccup need hugs too, especially Hiccup.**

 **Any guesses on who Prof. Vogstein and District 13's President are? Hehehehehe.**

 **Oh, yes, and Sgt. Calhourn returns – except that she's been promoted.**

 **Up Next: We'll be a taking a break from the depressing rebellion side to go on the Victory Tour, which I promise will not be depressing at all.**

 **I'm lying.**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hello!**

 **I realized that producing 8, 000+ words in a chapter has become my new normal (this one has 11,000+ words) , while authors all around me have like 3000+ in theirs usually…**

 **These chapters are so long! How do your eyes not burn after reading these?**

 **Oh, wait, they are burning? Oh, uh…saline for you?**

 **Guest Mailbox:**

 **skyline 10: That is a rather good idea. I think that there is potential that a relationship may develop between Hiro and Elsa. Hope there'll be space in the story for that.**

 **Fangirl: Yep, they are alive! The poor people around you though, haha…**

 **Totes awesome: Haha! I know that feeling on missing an update from my favorite stories. If you use ffnet often enough, consider making an account. It's quite easy to use on mobile – I think. It may because Wattpad on my phone keeps hanging. Merida is closer to Johanna in personality (and drug addiction), but the depression part I wrote for Merida in the previous episode was really inspired by Katniss' depression in the THG books. For the part on whether the entire team would become the Mockingjay, well…I'm still thinking about how to go about this. In my version of the story, I will be approaching the whole 'symbolism' concept quite differently from the original THGverse, so I think there won't be so be so much focus on filming propaganda and more actually like …war fighting. Yeah.**

 **So yep. That's all from me for now. See you all in two weeks!**

 **Review. Critique. Ask Questions.**


	5. Chapter 4: For Those We Much Rather Forg

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 4: For Those We Much Rather Forget

* * *

 **District 12**

Yellow daffodils were wrung between her fingers, forming knots in their stems. The pale greeting of the sun on a breezy summer's day stirred no joy in her heart, as it would have once had. It was odd how the little things that had once occupied her for hours no longer held the same charm. In a matter of fact, Anna now regarded so much of them as insignificant and wondered how she could have lavished so much passion over them.

One morning after brushing out the tangles in the red-brown strands of her head, she found it almost impossible to twist them into a twin braids, as she had once done. Those were braids of a child, blissful and optimistic about the world. Now the lights of the world had been dimmed, and she found that the donning a serviceable bun. It was not as attractive or cheery as the braids had been, but it felt more appropriate for her state of mind. That was, to be alone.

She thought she had known loneliness before, but it was tinged with a hope for change. Now, that loneliness was truly irreversible. She was the last of the Arendelle family, and knowing that made her feel older, sadder and perhaps a little wiser.

That said, Anna was not completely alone. Even now as she journeyed further away from the town, another hand was clasped tightly in hers. It was entirely possible that she wouldn't have survived this experience if not for him. He was steady, reliable and sensible in ways that she could never be. True, he was not dashing, exciting or mysterious, as the Prince Charmings she had once painted in her head. But there was something refreshing about his frankness; his dry wit; his sincerity. In her world, where too often feelings were either hidden or falsified, it could only be good to have someone as honest as him.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" her blonde companion asked as the textures below their feet changed from rough rubble and stone to leaves scattered on dirt. For him, time was extremely precious. He worked twelve hours for six day a week in the coal mines. Between feeding his family and caring for his Sven, he still made time to be with her. Whether it was just having meals with her, or talking to her, or running these strange errands with her, he made the effort. He never said so in words, but he showed it in actions that he would be there for her - to be her pillar of strength, her steady constant.

She was close to his family as well. Though she had moved back to the empty shack that Elsa and her had once shared, she spent most of her time with them and the people of the Hob. She still took odd jobs like floor sweeping, or house-building or laundry, but people had noticed a change in her. The solemnity and determination by which she had carried out each task earned their respect, and they saw her less as the lost soul who had wandered into their enclosure by misfortune and more like a brave young woman battling hardship. Anna knew this because Kristoff had told her so, from the gossiping that he had overheard from his mother. People started to say that she reminded them of her father back when he was a mayor. To that, she shook her head and laughed. Elsa was the one like Father, not her. She was not very smart, nor very good, and she certainly wasn't as brave as they made her out to be.

Her lack of courage was precisely why she hesitated at Kristoff's question. The cowardly part of her didn't want confrontation, but at the same time, there was ache in her that needed closure desperately. She had been postponing this long enough, and now that Victory's Tour was coming to their District, she had best get it out of the way. It was gnaw her insides for forever if she didn't. "Yes."

So they marched on. Soon scattered leaves and dirt gave way to stone slabs glued to the ground. District 12 was a small district, so it had been agreed amongst its people that its land was better used by the living than the dead. Thus, the graveyard here was small and overcrowded patch of grey. Over time, bodies had been stacked over older bodies to save space, turning the site into a little hill of dirt and rotting remains. Standing tombstones had been done away with, replaced by flat panel bearing the names of the deceased.

With so many names carved below their feet, it took the duo both a while to find the one they were looking for. At last, they spotted it - the fresh grey of newly-installed slate tablet. For now, it was recognizable amongst the moldy, broken slabs around it, but one day, wear and tear would wash away its color and it would fade in with the rest, joining the ranks of the forgotten. Anna would be glad when that day came, for heartbreaks were not memories she treasured.

"Do you want me here?" Kristoff's voice was soft, as if afraid to break the stony silence.

"No." Then she thought through this again. "Wait, I mean. Yes. Yes, please stay."

At this point, Anna did realize that there was actually precious little that he would not do for her (one of that little being to harm Sven, his reindeer friend, in any way) and it occurred to her despite all the changes that had happened her over the last seven or so months, he was the best thing that came out of it. Perhaps remembering old heart breaks was not all that bad. As long as the pain of betrayal stung, she would appreciate how wonderful he was.

With her slender palm still gripping into his calloused one, Anna stared down at the name etched on the grey plate. As if going through a measured ceremony, she bent herself slightly to let the worn daffodils tumble from her hands, over the engravings. She then straightened herself upright, gazing down at the panel with a definite contempt.

Finally, Anna said, "I still hate you."

Was that chill in the breeze? Even the warmth of sunlight pouring down overhead could not mask the iciness of her tone.

"You pretty much crushed all my childhood fantasies." Her free palm folded itself into a fist, and even then she was almost shaking it at that stone face. "You lied. You cheated – in more ways than one. Worse of all, you betrayed my sister. If you were alive right now, I would probably kill you myself."

There was something horrifying about how murderously calm she was. Even her present boyfriend, who was used her swings of temper by now, was slightly alarmed at how steely she was – frozen, stiff and resentful. It reminded him too well of another cold young woman that had lived in the Arendelle house.

But then Anna let out a sigh and relaxed her shoulders. The fierce hate in her expression softened, becoming muted and almost pitying. "But still, not even you deserved the Games. No one deserves the Games."

Indeed, no matter how much she did hate him, she would have never condemned him to such a fate. Even monsters didn't deserve to die in such a cruel, undignified, lonely manner.

They left the gravesite fairly quickly after that to go to their next destination – her childhood home. Her father, having passed on while he had been in office, had been buried on the old mayor's manor grounds. There his grave lay in an abandoned, but still delightful, garden cluttered with overgrowth and weeds. Her mother was buried besides him and that was where their eldest daughter joined them eventually.

The tattered metal gates of the estate still stood before the ruins of the manor and a gentle push was enough to make them swing open. Anna gazed down on the heap of burnt wooden planks and charred stone blocks, which were now folded into nets of vines. Crocuses of various shades had somehow continued to thrive around the wreckage without the gardener's care, for it would seem that the late Mrs. Arendelle had planted a strong breed indeed. Anna had never had to buy flowers for her own family, for all year round there were plenty of different shades available here.

She plucked a few and Kristoff helped her. Together, they created three small bouquets. The two of them then approached the erected gravestones, where Anna placed her new bouquets alongside her old ones. First for her father, who was described as 'honorable, hardworking, respected mayor, husband and father'. The next was for her mother, whose epitaph called her 'kind, gentle wife and mother'. The last was stone bore nothing but the name, for it was illegal to etch epitaphs on the graves of fallen tributes.

Yet after she lay down the last of her crocuses, Anna noticed that there was a marking there she had she had not seen before. "Kristoff, look at this."

The blonde boy immediately crouched down next to her, peering at the odd little symbol that she pointed at. It was carved into the stone, but the roughness of the texture suggested the one who did it did it in haste. It did strike Anna that it might be graffiti, but it didn't like obscene, insulting or even random. It was just a circle with a letter 'G' intertwined with it. The letter itself, rather containing a semi-circular curve and two straight lines, was drawn with only five straight lines, giving it a rather jagged look.

"I've never seen anything like that before," Kristoff admitted, finally standing back up again. "Was it there last time?"

"No," she said definitively. "I wonder what it could mean."

"Or maybe it's had always been there and you just didn't notice," Kristoff suggested dryly. She sent him a cross look, to which he defended himself, "It has happened before. Don't pretend it hasn't."

He didn't think that she was perfect, nope, but like she had said, he was honest.

After they gave up trying to figure out where it was the tombstone makers' trademark or it was indeed graffiti, they left the crumbled estate and walked her back to town, where most of the population was expected to be for the afternoon.

On the way, he asked, "Will you be alright?"

Anna shrugged helplessly. She honestly didn't know. Bursting spontaneously into tears kind of stopped about a week after the Games ended, and she had learned to give people solemn nods if they should, in low tones, give her their condolences. But just an two hours from now, she would be forced to stand on a stage while some Capitol-loving Career read a so-called eulogy for her sister (written by the Capitol escort, no doubt), broadcasted for all of Panem to see. She didn't know if she would break down into sobs or rupture into a rampage.

"Hey, if you don't want to look at her later, just look at me." He squeezed her hand comfortingly. "I'll be in the crowd somewhere."

"And how am I supposed to find you in the wash of people? Hmmh?" Anna let herself smile a little as she teasingly reached up to tug at his cap, dragging it off such that it's almost falling off. "By your unmanly blonde hair?"

Kristoff sighed as he readjusted the cap, brushing her hand away. "If emasculating me helps, then by all means."

They parted, because she needed to get a collar-pin from her home – that was, the house that belonged to her sister and her, and now just belonged to her - and he needed to change into his best coat. Kristoff planted a kiss on her forehead before they did, hoping that the sweet gesture would be of some comfort and she appreciated it the thought. The bitterness stirring in her chest however did not subside.

When Anna did arrive at her zinc-roofed residence, she was aghast to find that the door was swung open and there were two armed Peacekeepers standing outside. Another smartly-dressed Capitol attendant donning black body armor met her as she hurried forward, having to hitch her dress above her ankles as not to stumble.

"Miss Arendelle," he greeted her with a slight nod of his head. "We were hoping to catch you before the Tour presentation."

"'We'?" Anna echoed, staring at the guard. Her eyes flitted briefly to the windows of the house and through the fogged glass, she made out the figure of someone standing behind it. His skin was tinted purple, an appearance that had once scared her but not anymore, and his glassy eyes scrutinized her. Then she knew what exactly this was about. "Oh."

"We just have a few questions," the attendant continued, gesturing towards the door. "Won't you come in?"

"Yes, of course," she answered, because she knew that she didn't really have a choice. Her steps were heavy she climbed up the steps to the porch, and the heavy steps of the guards followed her menacingly.

Every time these Capitol people visited her, it was unannounced and unexpected. The first time it occurred, she had been frightened out of her wits, fearful that she had committed some offence that didn't know about. The second time it happened, she had been tensed, wondering what exactly these visits were for and whether they would be repeated. By the third time, she had become rather bored with these, though she had never said so outright to them lest they take offence and punish her. But all the same, she didn't know what they were looking for in these visits. The questions were always the same, so her answers were always the same. There was nothing new to be gained with these exercise.

"Miss Arendelle," was how she was received as she entered her living room. By the way the Capitol-bred doctor had met her, it would almost seem as if it was his home she had intruded upon rather than the other way around.

"Dr. Boggs," Anna said politely, nodding. She was glad he didn't offer to shake her hand, because she disliked the rough, scaly textures of his palm. She used to think the Capitol escort that conducted the Reaping every year was a strange-looking creature, but compared to this man - who was more like a walking snake than a man - that Capitol escort was quite ordinary in appearance.

"Take a seat, won't you?" Dr. Boggs pointed his pen towards the worn armchair across him. He himself was sitting in a shiny plastic chair that was probably brought in by his own assistants. Of course, the sky would fall before a Capitol official would sit on the moth-chewed furniture of a District 12 peasant.

Anna did seat herself down, glancing nervously at the hand-wound clock hanging from the wall. "Please, Dr. Boggs," she began, trying not to fumble on her words in her nervousness, "the Victory Train would be arriving any moment. I'm supposed to report to-"

"Yes, yes, I'm aware that your presence is expected at the Tour presentations." He brushed her concerns off as he opened a page on his writing pad, an item that he never failed to bring every time he came here. "I just wanted to ask your questions again, to clarify a few details about your sister and also the incident that had resulted in _that_." He indicated his pen this time to her head, but Anna knew that he was referring to the lock of white hair looped above her right ear.

Inwardly she sighed, but outwardly, she conceded to the little exercise. She didn't like thinking about 74th Hunger Games. She certainly didn't like being interrogated about Elsa, who, despite being an imperfect sister with extraordinary powers, deserved to rest in peace. However, cooperating with the Capitol people was infinitely better than arrested or sent to prison, so Anna just went along with it.

"Did you know that your sister, Elsa Arendelle, possessed powers of ice and snow?"

She answered the way she always did, "I did when I was very little, until Elsa's ice blast froze my head and I forgot it."

"And how do you know this now if you had forgotten it before?" The question was always asked in a taunting tone, as if catching her at a lie.

But Anna always held fast, replying unblinkingly, "My sister said so during the 74th Hunger Games. It was broadcast for all of Panem to see, so you must have seen it too."

She guessed that they wanted her to slip up, to say that she had known about her sister's power all along and had been hiding them. It might be enough to charge her as guilty and place under a firing squad - for hoarding a mutant and hiding 'vital' information from the Capitol, maybe. Sadly for them, and perhaps her, it wasn't true.

"Surely during all these years living together with your sister, you should have noted some evidence of your sister's abilities," Dr. Boggs noted rather coldly. "I find it quite implausible that you knew absolutely nothing about them."

"She was very good concealing them, sir," was all Anna replied. Elsa had been excellent at hiding secrets. Too excellent.

Dr. Boggs went on to the next question. "In your knowledge, do you know if Elsa had ever hurt anyone in the same way she had done for you?"

"No, but I don't still she would-"

"Do you know of anyone else surviving such an attack from Elsa?"

"I wouldn't call it atta-"

"To the point, Miss Arendelle. Yes or no."

"No."

"Have you met anyone of similar abilities to your sister?"

"No." This was followed by a snort. "Even when I saw her doing all that 'ice magic' in the Games, I didn't quite believe it myself."

"Not even your parents? Any relatives of yours?"

"My parents? No, of course not. I have no other relatives."

"What about yourself? Do you have any powers?"

"No. I'm completely ordinary." No matter how many times she said the same thing over and over, Anna felt that they never really believed her. Dr. Boggs nodded, his reptilian fronds bobbing back and forth as he did, yet he would still come back and ask the same idiotic question another day.

"With regard to your recovery from the ice-blast," he said, flipping through his writing pad, "who was the doctor who did the operation on you?"

She had to take in a breath before answering. If not, the irritation in her voice would have been far too prominent. "I don't remember, but as my sister had said during the Games, it was the old town doctor."

"Who is more coincidentally dead," Dr. Boggs remarked, sounding just as disbelieving as he looked.

"A pity, if not you could ask him questions instead," the brunette girl said snippy, barely able to keep her tone neutral. What exactly was he probing for? She really didn't know _anything_!

"Do you think the present town doctor have knowledge about your treatment?"

Anna shrugged. "I've never seen him before. He's too expensive. Besides, he kind of young. I don't think he has ever spoken to the doctor who operated on me."

Perhaps her frustration was more obvious than she had thought, for the purple-skinned Capitol doctor finally folded up his writing pad, straightening himself, ready to leave. "Well, thank you so much for your patience, Miss Arendelle."

"No problem at all," Anna lied, relief washing over her only for new dread to set in. She wasn't looking forward to the Victory presentation that came after this.

"I know that you're in a hurry, now, but just one last question." He gazed towards her, his cold eyes bearing into hers. "Does the term ' _Man in The Moon_ ' mean anything to you?"

The girl was taken aback by the oddness of the question, but her answer was near immediate. "No, I have no idea what it is. A 'man in the moon'? That's weird idea."

"What about 'the Big Four'? 'The Guardians'? Do any of these mean anything to you?"

She shook her vigorously.

"Alright then." A thin smile stretch across his reptilian countenance as he rose to her feet. "Thank you, Miss Arendelle. You best hurry to the square now. We'll leave shortly ourselves."

"Thank you." She scrambled up in a hurry. Darting over to a shelf to grab the coal pin that Kristoff had given her before, she all but fled straight out of the door. Again, it was as if this wasn't her own house.

The Capitol official and his associates didn't leave at once, for the former was still absorbed in pouring through his notes. Many of the questions were repeats, because he was looking out for consistency. Truths didn't change, but lies could be easily forgotten. Unfortunately, many of her answered had remained the same, except the part where she talked about the present town doctor.

She had described him as 'too expensive' – a term that she hadn't used before. Considering the hovel she lived him, Randall Boggs could understood why the District 12 peasant thought that way. The town doctor was often seen by the merchant class of the District, who undoubtedly were more capable of paying his fees. The impoverished denizens usually just succumbed to their ailments and died. Moreover, she brought up a good point. The person who did operation on her when she was a child had to be skilled enough a surgeon at least ten years ago. From the check-ups that his assistants had done in the town, he knew that she was right. The current doctor had begun practice only five years ago, whereas the old doctor had died seven years ago.

Randall sighed. Dead end again. Unless…

Unless his hunch was right and the ice mutant had been lying during identity of the one who conducted the surgery on her sister. After all, District 12 was such a downtrodden place. Where was its doctor going to get the training to perform such a complex operation? There were only available in the Capitol. Moreover, the equipment and medicines required would be far too expensive.

And then, the pieces fell into place.

Who were the only people in Districts that had wealthy and had connections to the Capitol? There were only two types - the mayors and the …

"How many victors does District 12 have?" Randalls asked one of his assistants out of the blue.

The assistant seemed startled at his question, but still answered quickly, "Only one that's alive, sir. They call him Pabbie in these parts."

"Pabbie? Yes," Randall said, still deep in thought, "I remember him now." An old interview episode played in his mind. It was filmed around fifty-three years ago. It was expected that all victor took up a hobby or talent of some kind to occupy the excessive amounts of free time, and the products of that talent was often showcased on Capitol television in between President's Addresses. It created quite a stir when a humble victor from District 12 devoted himself to study what he called 'healing arts'.

The reptile-like Capitol official turned sharply to his assistants and to his guards. "Clear the place. After the Tour presentation, we're going to pay Twelve's Victor's Village a little visit."

* * *

 **District 5**

Victory Tours were supposed to be a string of fun little visits around the districts. All victors went though it a few months after their Games. It always started with the victor's district, then from District 12 to District 1, before ending off at the Capitol. It was a way of keeping the Games fresh in people's minds while waiting for the next one.

Before her entourage had boarded the train, other victors from home had warned her not to be perturbed by what she saw. Other districts were very different from Two, they said, and that was just the way things were. Astrid hadn't really taken their words to heart until she got a good look at them herself.

District 12 had been a shock for her. All the buildings around seemed to be either decayed or crumbling. The homes were a little more than metal tents. Its people were subdued, unexcited folk, wearing simple, shoddy yet clean garments, nothing like the spirited citizens of Two.

District 11 was worse, with high walls surrounding it and electric fences scaled all around its plantations. Its people wore bruises and scars along with their patched clothes. There were so many children there, scruffy, dirty little things with hollow eyes. The hunger in their gaze reminded her of the times she had starved, yet what she suffered could only be a fraction of theirs. An air of gloominess loomed over the District of Agriculture and she couldn't wait to leave.

As they went down the line, the District conditions improved, though not by much. District 10 felt just as awful as District 11, but its population was smaller, so the state of depilation did not seem quite as severe. District 9 was more or less the same. District 8's people were better dressed, but their expressions were grimmer. District 7 bore cold indifference as well, for they certainly had better things to do then listen to yet another ex-career boast their victory. District 6 was granted uneasy welcome. After a while, everything sort of blended together. Rusted metal gates. Musty old factory plants. Figures bent over fields of crops. Forlorn, hopeless faces.

Even travelling on the luxurious monorail gradually descended into a blur. The delicious food and the lavish furniture was abhorrent to her simple, warrior self, as they had been the first time she was had ridden the train to the Capitol. The other passengers also did not provide much amusment, for there was only her hook-handed mentor, the Capitol escort and her preparation team. The latter two annoyed Astrid to no end, for she had no love of dressing up or gossiping about trivial things as Capitol citizens did, so she avoided them like the plague. Gobber provided familiar and cheery companionship in the foreign environment, but she did not know him as well as she did Stoick and could not bring herself to speak of the troubles in her heart. And many troubles did plague the victor of the 74th Hunger Games. The 'fun' Victory Tour triggered many an unpleasant memory.

Her job in the entire presentation was to make a speech at every district, which would be televised all over Panem. She didn't write it herself – her Capitol escort did. It was a dull, insincere thing that she repeated to the weary cattle of citizens in every district. Adding personal comments about the tributes from the district in question was expected but not mandatory, especially if she had no connection to them. Though she had many allies, there was only one that she considered worthy of her sentiment and he was from own district. That saved her a lot of speech-drafting time.

It didn't mean that she didn't remember the other tributes though. The Capitol was very adamant for her to remember, it seemed, and for the Districts to remember too. Every time she visited a District, there would be two special platform erected in the middle of the listening crowd. Those were where the families of the fallen male and females tributes from that District would stand. The faces of the two tributes themselves would be displayed on the screen behind their mournful families, glaring down at her, hating her for living while they could not.

While it was unlikely that the deceased could ever take revenge, Astrid kept with an axe under her pillow. You never know.

Some nights when she couldn't sleep, Astrid would seat herself on the polished velvet chair in the corner of her cabin, where she got a perfect view of the door. She would lean herself back in the chair, lay her axe over her lap and watch the door the way a hawk watches a mouse for the rest of the night, until she fell asleep.

She couldn't really explain to her prep team why they sometimes found her dozed off in a chair in the morning, clutching her axe tight. They would never understand that as irrational as it was, it made her feel better, and they fussed when little cuts started appearing on her arms and legs whenever she hugged the axe to close to her body, claiming that it ruined her complexion completely. In the end, it was Gobber who defended her, telling them to let her sleep the way she wanted. It was from looking into the old victor's eyes that she found empathy and realized that despite the hearty façade they usually wore, not all of District 2 victors were oblivious to burden of the Games.

Hence, one morning, she found herself blinking awake after hearing rapping on the door. Aches burned on her back and legs due to the uncomfortable positions they had been held at, so it took several groggy minutes before Astrid could stretch them out fully. By the time she crawled herself off the chair, the door had already slid open and her Capitol escort, looking as if a pot of blue glitter had just been dumped over his head after he had garbed himself with seashells, stepped in.

"C'mon along now, Astrid," he called to her in his maddeningly affected accent. "We're almost there and you're not even dressed up."

If he hadn't exited the very next second, he might have left with an axe in the head.

Her prep team had thirty minutes to transform her from a haggard, nonplussed teenager into the epitome of warrior beauty. Despite the airhead chatter, they were good at what they did, and her stylist had her garbed in a luxurious fur coat and yet another spiked belt. It was only after they set the metallic band over her forehead did she feel fully dressed. She was however not permitted to bring the axe with her, though no true warrior travelled without a weapon.

"Ready to go, lass?" Gobber called her as he detached the mug appendage from his wrist and twisting on his hook as replacement. His own garb was formal, but significantly more comfortable, for he wasn't expected to appear on stage like she was.

To be honest, she would never be ready. District 5 tributes were probably the highest on her list of people that she didn't want to remember, next to the District 1 girl that came so close to killing her.

Astrid took one last look out of the mirror before her prep team ushered her out of the train car, her stocky mentor following behind. An armed guard of Peacekeepers awaited them outside, and they were directed to a SJ-7, an armored truck-like military vehicle, which would be their transport for the road. Such had been the same when they were in other districts.

From what Astrid had heard from the sickening, whinny Capitol escort, such methods of the transport were unusual for they weren't very festive. But some of the Peacekeepers who had accompanied them, being from District 2 as well, had mentioned briefly that certain Districts have not been all that peaceful. The choices of transport vehicles were hence part of safety protocol. Astrid could not help but wonder whose safety the soldiers referred to.

They were taken straight to the Justice Building. From a distance, Astrid could see the crowds of people already gathered in front of the building's verandah, where she was to make her speech.

They drove up to the back of the building, where were greeted by a tall lady in green upon alighting the truck.

"Welcome to District 5." Despite the heavy mood set by the Peacekeepers assigned all around the entrance, the warmth that she emitted that helped to settle some of the queasiness building in the Astrid stomach. The woman, who probably their hostess, brightly smiled at the entourage. She then turned to her and held a hand out. "Congratulations on your victory."

"Thank you," Astrid said, shaking the offered hand. "Are you the mayor?"

The woman laughed. It was a very refined laugh; not too loud to be boisterous, yet not too soft to sound meek. "No. My husband is. He's preparing to make the speech." She gestured at the door. "Why don't you come inside? It'll be starting very soon."

Astrid and the entourage followed the mayor's wife into Justice Building. It was better maintained then those of other Districts, for the power-generation paid better as a vocation than the agriculture-based ones. The wallpaper had yet to yellow and the wooden flooring below their feet was well-polished. The crystal lamps on the sides of the walkway were sparkling. In the air, the scent of warm bread and grilled meats wafted in towards them. Gobber remarked something about getting this over with quickly so that they could eat, which earned a twitter of polite laughter from their hostess and wild chortles from the Capitol crew. However, Astrid felt goosebumps running up her skin as she noted the white-armored soldiers positioned along their route, submachine guns displayed prominently.

They were taken to a hall which stood directly behind the verandah. The wooden doors leading up to the performance stage were now still closed, but Astrid could hear the Panem anthem ringing out in the square, as it usually did before the ceremony began. She then spotted what must have been a giant of man. He was almost as large and muscular as Stoick, dressed in an uncomfortably formal suit which clashed horribly with the crimson curls that covered his beard and his chin.

It was then Astrid remembered one small, but extremely important detail that she had neglected until today.

"Fergus, dear, do you have your speech cards with you?" the kindly hostess spoke to the brutish mayor.

Astrid swallowed and took a step back, hoping that despite the bright blue blouse and her gleaming spike belt she might somehow blend herself into the background.

She didn't stand a chance, for the Mayor of District 5 glanced towards his wife and thus towards the victor that graced their presence today. His grim expression turned into a fierce scowl, one that darkened his whole countenance.

"Yes, Elinor, I do," he answered in a gruff tone, but his eye were glued to Astrid. If looks could burn, she would be nothing more than a smoldering pile of ash.

And could she blame him? His daughter had been lost to the Games, and she, the redheaded tribute's greatest rival, had won.

"Good." Mrs. Mayor smiled brightly, but Astrid had at this point realized that the pleasantness she showed was a form of defense, a way to diffuse the tension between her husband and the visiting company. "Now, the anthem's wrapping up, dear. That's your cue."

They must have rehearsed this, for just as the anthem ended, the doors of the hall were pulled open, exposing the company in within the Justice Building to the crowds waiting below the verandah. The mayor climbed the steps up the stage, and there he gave his obligatory speech. Astrid never really bothered listening to those speeches in the other Districts, for they were all more or less the same. However, as she heard him read words such as 'our glorious nation' and 'thankful to our rulers at the Capitol', there was a hardness in his voice, almost turning what should have been sweet rhetoric into coarse sarcasm. There were shouts from the crowds woven with jeers.

From her position off the stage, she noted that a perimeter of Peacekeepers surrounding the listeners of the tour presentation. There were two layers of them; the ones in front with shields and the ones behind with automatics at hand. All stood to attention, alertness seemed to have heightened by the restlessness of the crowd.

"What's going on?" she hissed to Gobber, feeling uneasiness rising up her system.

Before her mentor could say anything, she felt Mrs. Mayor – mother of the fallen District 5 girl – tap her on the shoulder. The smile stretched on the older woman's face was thin with worry, but she was insistent on maintaining appearances. What good it did, Astrid didn't know.

"It's your time, dear. Get up there." She herself hurried up onto the stage to join her husband.

With much reluctance, Astrid ascended the stairs, and only splatters of applause greeted her. Then cold silence fell, as the liveliness that had been with their Mayor had died in her presence. Again, she saw the wash of faces – dirtied, bruised, scarred. But not hopeless. No. In their eyes, they held a remarkable lightness - a glimmer of hope, something that Astrid had not yet seen during the Games. But that hope alone was hiding something else, something dark that she could not place.

"Won't you say something?" the suggestion came out behind gritted teeth, almost sounding like a growl. The mayor of District 5 glared at her even as he beckoned her forward, a hand raised toward a microphone just on the edge, right in front of the crowd. It occurred to her then that unlike other Districts, there were no raised platforms for the families of the fallen, only the screens – one showing an image of a boy with a tuft of yellow hair, and a girl with brilliant red curls.

But then Astrid realized that maybe there was no need. The Mayor was already standing here on the verandah with his wife and three young boys that she assumed were their sons – the brothers of the District 5 girl. The boys twirled locks were a shade of red that could only be earned by inheritance, so it was impossible to mistake them for anyone else. Astrid saw no representatives for the male tribute, but perhaps he had no family.

The mayor's wife bore a serene expression, but the mayor himself looked like he wanted to rip her apart.

Astrid fought the urge to run. She was from the District of Panem's greatest warriors. She wasn't afraid of anything. Other than her own shadow. And an assortment of nightmares. And a certain redheaded archer.

The sooner she did this, the sooner it would be over.

She stepped forward, confident and proud as people of District 2 had always been. The cards in her hands were crumpled from how she had clenched them, but she merely straightened them between her palms. The tremors that attacked her were barely noticeable when she stepped before the microphone and began reading her speech.

"I would like to thank you all for having me here today. It is a true privilege to be standing here before you all as I share my victory with you. There are few words that I can use to express how my gratitude to the Capitol for granting me a title of victor of the Hunger Games, but one that I do like to use is 'honor'."

Next card. "As citizens of our Great nation, there are many hardships that we face, but honor make all it worth it. To have honor in one's life is to have a beacon in the darkness. And indeed, the greatest beacon that guides us all is the Capitol. What much more can there be in life?"

Next card. "To serve is an honor. To fight is an honor. To die is an honor. To kill-" her hand shook, and she had to still it to keep reading "- is an honor. To win the Games is an honor. As long as it all done in for the glory of the Capitol, whatever it might be, it is the truest honor. There is nothing more than I, or any of us, could ask for, than to be a piece in the grand future that the Capitol holds in store for us."

Her chest tightened as she realized which part of the speech she had come to. Astrid could hardly stop her quivering arms as she drew up the next card. This was what she had been dreading since the beginning of the Tour – reading this in District 5 of all places.

"I would also like to share with you," she read slowly, "the sorrow of your losses. The tributes of this district were great and noble warriors." Without meaning to, Astrid lifted her eyes to the Mayor and his family. The cold gaze that he shot her was unchanged, and she could even feel the hate radiating of the tinier members of this redheaded clan. The only one that showed the slightest sympathy was the Mayor's wife, who nodded kindly. Astrid returned to the cards. "Truly, they have brought honor to their families and pride to their-"

" _LIES!"_

Astrid recoiled at the savage outcry, so sharp and intense that it sent a fizzle of static running in the feedback. The words on her tongue died as her head jerked up, find a flushed, glowering face staring up at her in the thick throng. He was no youth, by the white of his hair and the wrinkles on his face, but the strength of his bellows could have deceived her to believe otherwise.

"You!" He jabbed a ruddy finger towards her, gnashing as his teeth as he hollered. "Do not pretend that you sympathize with us, you Peacekeeping scum! You do not share our sorrows – you do not _deserve_ to!"

Members of the crowd that surrounded him looked upon with surprise, but there was no reproach in their expression. If Astrid's eyes did not deceive her, some of them appeared to have agreed with what was said.

Peacekeepers lined in the front extended their batons and started to weave their way through the masses, closing in on the craggy old man. He paid them no heed, fixing his scorching gaze upon the blonde victor on stage.

"Read your cards if they placate you," he growled at her, still reeking derision and hate, "but do not pretend that you understand _my_ loss." He thumped a fist against his chest, his harsh voice welling suddenly in emotion. His head was bent forward in grief, making him appear more broken than crazed. "H-he… he was my only son."

And everything clicked together. Astrid compared the old man to the blonde male tribute gazing back at her from one of the projected screens. Why he wasn't up on the verandah like the mayor's family was, she didn't know, but the resemblance was undeniable.

The first Peacekeeper who reached the disruptor of the presentation placed a firm hand on his shoulder. However, with a show of surprising strength, the old man elbowed the soldier hard in the head. The helmet should have protected the Peacekeeper, but it seemed that blow was so powerful that the soldier ended up stumbling back. The people who were gathered around this scene gasped in astonishment as the Peacekeeper's back hit the ground. Astrid didn't know how everyone else on the stage was reacting, because all her attentions were fully channeled to the bizarre scene unfolding before her.

So when the old man snatched the automatic from the fallen Peacekeeper and pointed it towards her, she was aware enough of it to duck.

A shower of bullets had Capitol attendants scuttling over the stage wildly, hands flying over heads as the bullets met glass. Shattered fragments and splinters rained above them as the churn of the automatic cackled on. Only when more Peacekeeper reached the old man did the firing cease. The gun was seized from his hands and Astrid winced involuntarily as she watched a soldier slam the baton down him, sending blood spilling down his forehead. The crowd was in uproar – whether in shock or fear, whether in condemnation or support, she didn't know - but the guards forming the perimeter began marching forward, their shield pressing against the tide of people while the bleeding, now-dazed old man was roughly yanked from the crowd, Peacekeepers hooked to him by the arms.

Astrid felt a gloved hand latch onto her own, and her first instinct was to struggle. "Let go!"

"It's not safe here!" an familiar voice told her and before she could pull away, Astrid was hoisted back up to her feet and dragged away from the crowds, down the steps and back into the hall of the Justice Building. Even as she was led away, Astrid saw a Peacekeeper throw the old man onto the stage, dropped to a kneel, while another pulled his revolver from the holster. The crack of a bullet was muffled by the cries of the crowd and before the old man's limp form fell limp to the platform, the door facing the verandah were drawn to a shut.

Astrid felt her head swirling with shock, disbelief and horror, tossing inside her like waves in a storm. Her heart was slamming against her chest as she tried to compose herself. Yet the explosion of bullets echoed in her mind as she recalled the time that another projectile had nearly killed her. She quickly placed a hand to her chest, feeling for the hole where a dagger had once lodge itself – a dagger had threatened to send her toppling over the edge towards death.

"Astrid, are you okay?"

She whirled around to find herself face to face with a Peacekeeper, the one who had dragged her off the stage. Yet the voice was one she knew. Her throat was parched and she was barely able to croak out, "Fishlegs?"

There was a slight chuckle as the Peacekeeper removed his helmet, revealing the chubby face that she had known growing up. He gave her a small smile.

Despite the harrowing events that just occurred, she was glad. A friendly face was welcome after the cold frowns. "What are you doing here?"

"It's part of training," he told her simply, shooting a grimace towards the shut doors of the hall. "I'm not actually a full-blown Peacekeeper yet."

"I thought you'd spent a year in barracks at least before going out field." It seemed strange to converse about such mundane military details as they did back home, but considering the events that gone down, Astrid was appreciated something that she was accustomed - something that didn't send bile running up her throat.

"They sped up the barracks-side training because they needed more people on the ground," Fishlegs answered. Astrid was about to ask why they would, but when she thought about the jeering, violent population of District 5, she realized she knew the answer.

"Lass, ye alright?" Gobber clambered forward, looking over her anxiously. "Heard some coot from Five lost his h'eed outside. Nasty business, that is." He then noticed Fishlegs standing beside her. "'Eh? Aren't ye that Ingerman boy? Wha' ye doin' 'ere?"

As Fishlegs began yet another explanation of his presence, Astrid's attention drifted across the hall. The mayor and his family were huddled close together on the other side. The mayor was, of course, furious, his face burning scarlet as he quarreled with his wife in hushed, but fervid, tones. The warm lady who had greeted the entourage no longer wore her strained smile, appearing as grim as her husband.

Though she couldn't hear what was said, Astrid knew without a doubt that it had to do with the shooting. She wondered if the Mayor had known the old man. By their ages, she could imagine that they would be friends, - perhaps not the closest of brothers, but drinking buddies, who had shared hardships and dreams along with pints of beer.

By the feet of the couple, the blonde girl saw the three young boys hovering about uncertainly, their adorable miens torn with worry and fear. One of them was whimpering, his thin knuckle twisting against his eye, while another had was squirming next to his mother, trying to get her attention by tugging her sleeve. The last of the redheaded lads accidentally raised his head towards Astrid and for a brief moment, his gaze met hers. She did not know what he had seen in her eyes, but whatever it was, it made him shrink back.

He quickly clutched onto his father's large coat, trying to hide himself behind it, though his father was too absorbed in the heated discussion with his wife to notice. Perhaps the boy might have been too young to understand the hullaballoo, but he was old enough to guess that the strange blonde girl from District 2 had been the cause of it.

She didn't know why it bothered her, but Astrid didn't like the idea of a boy being afraid of her. Yet the blonde tribute from District 5 – a boy just a little older than her, but still a boy - had been more afraid of her, she wouldn't have been able to slam her axe into his back during the Bloodbath.

A sharp jolt of guilt struck her heart as it occurred to her that the death of the old man was on her shoulders now as much as that of his son.

* * *

 **Capitol Undergrounds**

 **Scare Floor**

A howl of anguish rocketed off the rafters, ricocheting through the observation deck. A short buffer break was given, before the guard inside the torture chamber pressed the button again. A fizz of electricity spurted out, mixing with a sharp moan.

"Anything yet?"

Randall turned himself from the observation glass to face his superior. He reported wearily, "He's a stubborn old fool. I don't know why he bothers keeping mum. This would've been a lot faster if he just cooperated."

"Less fun though," the Head of the Undergrounds murmured with an amused expression as a flash of electricity appeared again, followed by a mournful cry.

The scientist shrugged. "The screaming gets quite irritating after a while."

"Well, I suppose in such excess, it would," Pitch conceded, the black folds of his robe rustling against one another as he swung about. He peered down the enclosed chamber, where the torture master carried on with their works. "It's pity we can't harness it for some other purpose than deafening ourselves."

"Actually,-" Randall was cut off by a strong yowl – remarkable, considering the age of the one on the torture bed. "Actually," the purple-skinned scientist began again, "I have been working on a prototype of a machine that converts the sound energy from screams into electrical energy. Been at it for a while."

"Really?" Pitch's brow rose with interest. "Why haven't I heard of this before?"

"Calhourn halted the project while she was in charge. Something about it disgusted her. Of course, now we know she's traitor, so that explains the kid gloves on the whole torture deal." Randal made a sneering noise, a mix of annoyance and scorn. "I haven't touched it for months."

"Well, I think you should start it up again." A sadistic visage stretched itself across the greyed countenance. A wicked glint glowed in Pitch's dark eyes. "It would be a remarkable feat indeed if we could utilize a resource that we have in such surplus."

Down in the enclosure, the interrogators on duty had seemed to pause their work for a moment as one of the leaned down towards the subject of torture, listening as the worn old fellow whispered hoarsely into his ear. The interrogator then straightened himself upright and pressed the communicator in his ear.

" _Dr. Boggs,"_ the voice of the interrogator crackled through the announcement system of the observation deck. _"He's ready to talk."_

"Excellent," Randall replied through his communicator on the computer interface. Lifting his hand from the button and prepared to rise from his seat, he asked his superior, "Just wondering, Mr. Black, that after he does give us the information we need, what should we do with him? He is a victor, after all. We can't keep him here forever."

"Then don't," Pitch answered without hesitation. "Arrange him to pass away peacefully with a heart attack. He's an old man. The public won't even blink." He gazed down at the torture enclosure contemptuously. "It seems a light punishment for one who keeps secrets from the Capitol."

Randall considered this for a moment, before remarking, "Fair enough." Of course, it wasn't as if he could have objected to the orders of the Head of the Undergrounds if he wanted to.

As the scientist made his way out of the observation deck, Pitch felt the hair the back of his neck standing – a familiar sensation that came with someone watching him. He whipped himself around, finding that the eyes that were locked on him belonged to a golden-haired Avox, stationed at the back-wall of the deck where he was to render assistance upon orders. The fellow was small, stout figure who was no match to Pitch in height or strength, yet he glared at him with such great intensity.

Pitch merely gazed back at the silent slave in cruel glee. "Don't worry," he said in mocking comfort, "at least he'll never suffer the humiliation you do."

The Avox said nothing, for it was not his place to do so. Moreover, with his tongue removed, it was impossible for him to utter so much as a word. But the fury in his expression spoke volumes.

Pitch could have punished the slave severely, for expressing emotion alone was not permitted of an Avox, but ex-Gamemaker found that it was more entertaining to let him seethe. There was nothing the sad little creature could do anyway. Like the old man hooked to the torture bed, he was too merely a prisoner of the Capitol.

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **This chapter title name is actually in reference to another chapter title name back in The Odd of Five (TOO5), Chapter 10-11: For Those We Love So Dearly. The contrast is that Chap 10-11 of TOO5 was about the interviews of the tributes (my, that was ages ago…) where they talk about their families and people they care about. As for the Victory Tour, unless you have an ally that you were close to, you have basically have talk about all these dead kids that you** _ **don't**_ **want to care about.**

 **If it wasn't obvious enough, the first grave that Anna and Kristoff visited was Hans'. He's sad, sad guy. And yes, though they might not say so, Kristanna are totally dating by now.**

 **Astrid obviously no Mockingjay – she's quite the opposite, actually. If you don't remember, the male tribute from District 5 was Wee Dingwall. The old man who created the ruckus is thus Dingwall Snr. If you can't remember what exactly happened in the Bloodbath, see first part Chap 14 of TOO5.**

 **I think we all know who the golden-haired Avox is. He's actually been around for some time. Some of you have spotted him way back in TOO5 even. Hehe. Is he significant? Of course not! That's why I waste so much foreshadowing on him.**

 **Up Next:**

 **The Victory Tour goes to the Capitol, and somebody makes a comeback.**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I used to post my chapter on Sundays. Now I either post them on Saturdays or Mondays. It's all rather odd. Well, consistency is the defense of the weak, I suppose (that maybe a misquote…hmph.)**

 **Guest Mailbox:**

 **SmilingStarcat (Chap 2): Nice to see you around again! Glad that you still like the weird mix bowl that this story is. The 'revival' of Jack and Rapunzel are weird little anti-climax twists that I added in, so I do understand if you found it disappointing or anything – but trust me, they are essential for the story. It's fine to be confused by the snowman part. It's nothing more than a little girl's imagination(...or is it?) I'll try not to drag out the mental problems parts too much, but it has to comeback every now and then to bite our character's in their backs. After all, you never really do leave the Games… Anyway, I love your scattered thoughts! Any little thing is appreciated, so thank you for taking the time to write this!**

 **As usual, I would love to hear your thoughts and collective anguish (when appropriate).**

 **See you in two weeks! (One reader has pointed out to me that this is the last thing that Anna said to her parents before they got on the ship and, well, you know… I'm still going to say it anyway. There are only so many ways I can say it, after all.)**

 **Review. Critique. Ask Questions.**


	6. Chapter 5: Come Over To My Garden and Pl

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 5: Come Over to My Garden and Play

* * *

 **Capitol**

 **Presidential Palace**

The Silver City was no less breath-taking than it had been when she had first visited it, but Astrid was no longer dazzled by the sparkling lights or the glaring screens. The menagerie of wild Capitol citizens dressed in their prismatic costumes swarmed her every step, greeting her with handshakes, pets on the shoulder and applause. The beams on their faces were almost predatory, for each was eager for a word with the victor if only to boast to their neighbors that they had done such a deed. As her Capitol escort reiterated ceaselessly, tonight, she was the star. As gloriously magnificent she appeared to be in the shining dress that hugged her muscular build, the only resemblance Astrid felt towards the stars were how isolated they were.

The tours had left a sour taste in her mouth, for more reasons than one. The last stop had been at District 1, where she had been reminded too much about the two Careers who had been her allies, and one of which who had come very close to killing her. Gothel had no family to mourn her, so Astrid felt no guilt, but her male counterpart did, and the blonde girl did all she could to avoid his parents' gaze.

On hindsight, she decided what stayed with her most from the Tours was not the dilapidated conditions of the Districts, or even the tributes themselves. It was the families. Sisters, brothers, mothers, _fathers._

The hateful gaze of the old man from District 5 as he screamed at her for killing his son still burned in her mind. His only son.

Was it right that she who had no kin lived, while those who had family waiting for them didn't?

Astrid let out a shaky sigh, brushing back the gold strands from her eyes, readjusting the spiked band on her forehead. She had a plate of cream-stuffed scones with a delectable dish of jam balanced on one hand, while the other grasped a glass of bubbling substance unfamiliar to her. She was in the Presidential Palace. The most happening party in all of Panem was being thrown in her honor. Wide gardens and their fountains were glitzed with shimmering décor that glowed when the lights hit them. Credenza in the indoors ballrooms were piled with ambrosia in forms of pastry, fruit and meat. Fancy-dressed waiters went around serving cocktails and wines. An orchestra on the front porch was in full swing, conducting the party-goers into a rave of ecstasy and frenzied pleasure. The crowds who had been pressing on her upon her arrival had mysteriously decided to give her some space – one that she needed to be mull over her own thoughts.

The blonde girl pursed her lips together, steeling herself. A burst of anger simmering in her chest. Why should she feel guilty about those who had lost? Why should she apologize for the skill and luck that reaped her rewards? The fallen tributes deserved to fall because they were weak. She deserved to win because she was strong.

Well, she had to admit that wasn't entirely true. It might have been so in the beginning, where her strength and proficiency with an axe had dragged her through. But the re-runs that they played of the Games reminded her of the sacrifices and the risks that _he_ had made so that she could live. He had many opportunities to kill her, or just abandon her, but he made sure that she pulled through when he could not. It was right then that she owed his father everything.

But for the other families, they had no right. Why should she be blamed for the deaths of their children? It wasn't as if she killed all of them herself, and even if for those she did kill, it wasn't because she wanted to. That was just how the Hunger Games worked. Why did they blame her then?

Why did she blame herself?

"Great party, isn't it?"

There was so much noise pouring into her ears that she was surprised to have heard the words so clearly, but she did. Astrid angled her head towards to her left, where a tall, lean young man in a navy-blue tailcoat and smooth black trousers was sipping – no, downing – a glass of wine.

"The band they got this time is better than the last," he went on, as if she had agreed with him, swirling the yellow liquid in his hand. "The food's better too, but in smaller variety."

Throwing his head back, he chugged down the rest his drink before turning to her. It didn't escape her that he was remarkably handsome, from the chiseled jaw down to the sculpted build. The new victor also realized that she knew his face, though she had never met him in person. She had seen him on television much more than she had cared to, and she had watched him in his year of Games.

"You're Flynn Rider, aren't you?"

He shoots her a smirk, drawing himself back slightly as to provide a florid bow. "The one and only. You, my dear,-" he took her by the wrist without warning and pried the wineglass from her, an act that could have resulted in the loss of his hand if she hadn't been exerting tremendous self-control "-are way too young to drink that."

He proceeded to wash the liquid from the glass down his throat, let out a triumphant gasp as he swallowed it all. He smacked the base of the glass on the table top as he did. The force was too great and the stem of the glass shattered. The Capitol's most fashionable man merely examined his handiwork with mild amusement before leaving the fragments of glass in a pile for the attendants to clean up.

Astrid observed this with a sense of bewilderment and disgust. Whenever they studied his Games back in the Career Academy, it was always to emphasize the importance of appearance. Flynn Rider was gorgeous, even as a boy, which was why the Capitol had been more than happy to throw their money at him. Clinching victory had only been a matter of time, and becoming the most desired man in the Silver City was, too, inevitable.

Nonetheless, it didn't escape her notice either that there were two victors present at a party meant to celebrate one. Feeling a little threatened, Astrid asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Me?" He snorted at her. "I always come to all the fancy parties, don't you know?"

A waiter passed them at that moment bearing a tray of wine glasses, and Flynn chose to lighten the fellow's load. The minute the glass touched his finger, he almost immediately downed its contents. He couldn't drink this entirety of it though, so he stopped for a breath, wiping the dripping liquid from his chin using the back of his hand. "This isn't half-bad, actually. Want some?"

The blonde girl gaped at him in completely incredulity. "You just said that I was too young to drink it."

"Well, my mistake. Everyone deserves a drink. Especially people like us." He shoved the half-drunken cup into her hand. "Here. Taste it."

Astrid sniffed at the wine glass, peering at the clearly intoxicated man. "Not really into alcohol." She had only tried it twice – once at a party in District 2 in honor of her victory, and again on the Tour train. The liquid still burned her throat and the taste was exceedingly bitter. She didn't understand the rave about it.

"Good. More for me." Flynn relieved her of the glass once again, which he unsurprisingly managed to finish.

Though she could continue watching him for the rest of the evening in repulsed entertainment, something he said struck her. "What do you mean 'people like us?"

"Victors. Survivors. Living corpses waiting for the sweet, sweet surrender of death," he quipped melancholically, staring intently into the Capitol crowd, his stained lip resting against the rim of his empty cup.

The lights had dimmed and the songs had slowed. People held each other and twirled themselves over the marble tiles. They spun around in a manner that was almost hypnotic, the colors of their polychromatic attire gleaming under the glow of the lamps. Astrid found herself entranced by this foreign but dazzling sight.

"Wanna dance?"

She stared at Flynn, who wasn't even looking at her. In a matter of fact, she wondered his question was directed towards her.

The much-adored older victor must have guessed her confusion, for he added morosely, "Well? Is that a yes or no?"

"I don't know how to dance," she excused herself, deciding at that moment to dig into her scones and jams. As interesting as the scenery was, she didn't really want to become part of it.

His response was a scoff. "It's easy. I'll show you."

Before Astrid could protest, she was found herself being dragged away, her plate falling from her hands as it happened. Flynn found them an empty spot on the ballroom, where he serendipitously managed to dump his empty glass on a waiter's. Without asking for her permission, he groped her at the waist.

Immediately, her arms shot out to shove him away, clenching into fists. "Don't touch me!"

It must have been louder than she had thought, for a few heads turned their way, but Astrid didn't care. Her eyes were burning at him.

"What? It's just the dancing position." Flynn jerked his head towards the rest of the dancing crowd. "My left hand rests on your waist. Your right hand rests on my shoulder. Our other two hands clasp each other, then we move around in circles. It's called a waltz."

Astrid turned to watch the other dancers, who had indeed their hands placed in such positions as they twirled around the dance floor. Amongst the party-goers though, there were people staring at them from across the room and she shifted uneasily under the unwanted attention. When he reached to her waist the second time, Astrid didn't pull away, but she did treat him with a narrowed glare, warning him should he dare reach further.

Flynn guided one of her hands to his shoulder, and to hold her other hand in his free one, remarking at the same time, "You're rather short for a Career. You know that?"

The intensity of her scowl only increased. "I'm fifteen. What's your excuse?"

The victor of the 74th Hunger Games allowed the victor of the 69th Hunger Games lead her in the waltz simply because she did not know what else to do. They were certainly not best dance couple that could be, for she could barely keep herself from stepping on his feet, and the alcohol in his system had clearly addled his skill in dancing. Nonetheless, their performance was enough to dismiss the prying eyes of the crowds, who turned their attentions back to their meaningless chatter and sumptuous meals.

"Do you know that I don't like blondes?"

She wrinkled her nose at him as the foul stench filled her nostrils. "Do you know that I don't like your face?"

He let out a good-hearted guffaw. "Quite a charmer, aren't you?"

"Better than you," was her critical snip. "At least I don't smell like an open grave."

"Good analogy." Flynn nodded as they circled around the floor in the romantic atmosphere, though Astrid was feeling anything but romantic. He seemed strangely impossible to offend, but perhaps it was the wine. "I'm a rotting carcass waiting to pass from purgatory, more or less."

"You look like one too," she told him. It wasn't a complete lie. His face was swelling into an unpleasant shade of crimson and his eyes grew increasingly bloodshot as they waltz on. So much for Flynn Rider's dashing good looks.

He didn't reply to her jab this time, which Astrid was fine with. She wasn't completely fond of talking to him – partly because he smelled terrible, partly because there was something horribly unsettling about the words that left Flynn's mouth, no matter offhand they sounded. She hoped that the song would end soon so they could part, but by how the musicians bowed their strings and blew their chords, it seemed that the waltz would not leave its largo pace any time soon.

"I don't usually like blondes," he suddenly said to her, "but I had this dream once. I was dancing with this blonde girl. No, it wasn't you-" he added before she put in a biting remark "-she had green eyes, which are, by the way, prettier than blue."

"Really?" Aforementioned eyes glittered dangerously.

"Absolutely," he answered, missing the threat altogether. "She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen – no more than that." There's wistfulness in his tone that somehow softened the animosity that she bore towards him. "She's like the sun – warm, bright, radiant. You get this gist, don't you? In her, I saw everything I wanted, everything that I'd never dared to hope for and everything that we could be together. Then suddenly,-" his gaze suddenly went unfocused and he broke off. His steps slowed, almost dragging them to a stop midway through the ballroom floor.

A wiser part of her told her to bite her tongue, but the girl's curiosity got the better of her. "Suddenly what?"

"She's just … gone." There's a soberness that seemed to come over him, one that reduced him from a casual drunken eccentric into a lost, even vulnerable, soul. His voice was hoarse. "Night falls. I wake up feeling as if I had just been to Hell, only realize that I'd never really left." The fingers that grasped her left hand almost let them go, and he just stood there, stunned and shaken.

In her mind, Astrid was confused. She still felt disgust towards this coarse creature who had been dubbed the most wanted man in Panem (wanted as in 'desired', not as if he was a kind of fugitive or something. What a thought that would be!), but at the same time, she could not help the tinge of sympathy blooming inside her.

As abruptly as before, his mood changed. He was sweeping her across the floor more as the song picked up pace. Flynn Rider's somber attitude dissolved into blunt honesty. "You're really pretty."

Astrid considered him with slight suspicion, wondering where on earth that compliment came from. "Thank you - I suppose."

"I mean, you are really, really attractive," he continued on, as if the first mention of it wasn't bizarre enough. "I'm not the only person who thinks so."

"Really?" Was he flirting with her? After insulting her eye color and pouring out his heart? Astrid had a huge urge to slap him, but she settled for squeezing his shoulder tight, hardening her gaze on him. Again, the warning went straight over his head.

"I heard them talking." Flynn's eyes darted to the Capitol crowd, before falling back on her. "How old did you say you were again?"

"Fifteen." She was become more and more confused as to where the conversation was headed.

"Got any family?"

"I'm an orphan," Astrid told him, still puzzled.

He nodded, looking grim. "That'll help, but not much."

"Help in what?" There was a huge itch for her to tear her hair out, or tear his limps off. Both were equally tempting options.

"When they get you. No family means that they've got less hold over you, but not much, of course. There're always other things they can use." A shadow fell over his countenance.

"Get me for _what_?" There was a feverish note in her voice. If he didn't clarify this right now, she would punch him. Hang the decorum.

It was then he drew himself back slightly from her, looking down upon her frustration with condescending amusement. "You really don't have any idea what I'm talking about?"

It took her a while to piece together his odd comments, but when she caught several elegantly-dressed Capitol ladies gazing upon her dance partner with dreamy yet inexplicably hungry looks, it all clicked in her mind.

"How much do you think you're worth?" she heard Flynn say in a casual tone, ignoring how wide her eyes had become. "Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand?"

"Excuse me?" Astrid gasped.

"Well, maybe not a hundred thousand," he mused aloud. "You're still young yet, so you're not experienced enough. Give it a few years, though, if you play it right, you might make it out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you-"

That did it. She roughly removed his hold from her waist before twisting his right arm, making him yelp in pain. Adding pressure on the elbow and pushingher weight against him, Astrid forced him down to his knees in the middle of the dance floor. Twisting his arm around harder, her other hand darted forward towards his neck, gripping him by chokehold.

It took her a second or two to realize that those actions had brought the party to a screeching halt. The other party-goers gawked upon the unexpected and rather violent display that unfolded before them. Even the waiters and musicians had their eyes glued to her, uncertain if they should resume their duties or join the freeze. Astrid gazed down at the Capitol's most fashionable man, who, despite being held at her mercy, shot her a sardonic grin. If this was the Hunger Games, he would dead.

But it wasn't. It was her victor's party. She didn't _need_ to kill him, but she did want to. Even so, she knew that would bring her no satisfaction. What she really wanted was for him to take back what he had said, but even if he did, his insinuations still had an element of truth.

"Astrid!" Her Capitol escort came rushing, crying out in dismay that his precious victor had decided of all places the Presidential Palace to make a scene.

She let Flynn go, shoving him hard as she did. But even as he went crashing backwards, he was cackling - clutching his arm in pain, yes, but still cackling. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was because he understood something that she didn't - some inescapable fate that he foresaw in her life based on his own.

There were Capitol attendants helping the older victor back to his feet, as well as admirers who immediately went by his side. He didn't look at them, however, fixing his eyes on his assailant, a pitying smirk playing on his ruddy expression.

Astrid took a step backwards, and instantly she became aware of the crowd staring down at them. Against her own will, she horrifically began to deliberate on how much exactly one of those colorful ... _animals_ would pay for the pleasure of her company.

Spinning on her heel, the girl darted from the dance floor, pushing past the shocked Capitol crowd, letting a stray glass clatter to the ground or having a jam tart knocked into someone's face. She didn't care if their sensibilities were offended. Moreover, she hoped to offend them.

Astrid hitched the gown over her ankles, fleeing into the gardens where the party had gone on, not knowing what had just occurred. She hurried past the faces smeared with rouge and colorants who waved their manicured hands towards her. She ignored offers to try sweetmeats or cocktails. She just needed to get away from this maddening throng.

She might have heard voices pursuing her, but the owners of those voices were not the ones who sprinted ten miles up a hill every morning. The flat-heels of her boots allowed her to escape more quickly into the foliage beyond the party garden. The grounds turned from trimmed grass to packed dirt after she passed through what appeared to be an orchard. While she might have like to examine it more, avoiding any more party guests was on the top of her agenda tonight, so Astrid plunged herself further down the trees.

There might have been a twig or two caught in her dress, and she could feel the elegant hairdo that her stylists' had done coming down. The ground was a little damp, so the silk on the boots were getting splattered on. But she didn't want to stop. Adrenaline helped her to forget the horrible insinuations that he made – insinuations that were possibly be true.

Was she, well, that _attractive_? Was that all the Capitol people saw when they saw her? Valhalla forbid that she become an accessory like Flynn Rider!

A scowl found its way to her face as she pushed herself harder - faster. If she could have traded all her looks in the world for strength instead, she would have done so a heartbeat. Looks were no use a warrior.

It was entirely possible that she might have run all the way to the end of the Presidential Palace, for she did have the ability to do so, if it wasn't for the most absurd of interruptions.

 _"There's a snake in my boot!"_

Her entire body jerked to a halt at this startling buzz of a voice. Standing between under a large birch, she gazed left and right, but saw no one. Then she noticed something hanging before her.

She may have never had a toy as a child, but Astrid was knew one when she saw one. Unhooking the pull string and loop from where it had been caught in the leafy overhang, she examined that the hand-sewn doll that lay in her hand. By the hat and the blanket stitched vest, she could only assume that it was meant to resemble a farmer perhaps, or maybe some kind of animal herder. She wasn't too sure though – the bright yellow of his shirt and the blues of his trousers made her think of the colorful Capitol crowd, with the eye-sores of constructs that they called clothes. The reminder was enough to make her shudder.

She flipped the toy over in her hand, letting its limp cotton-stuffed limbs flop down on her palm. She eyed the loop attached to the back of the toy and after a moment of contemplation, she decided to hook her finger in it and pulled the string back.

Nothing happened at first, but when she let go of the loop, the buzzing voice emerged from the toy once again, _"Reach for the skkkkky!"_

"Cowboy? O, Cowboy?"

This was not from the doll, but somewhere from her surroundings. Without even thinking, Astrid adopted her fighting stance, ripping her gown slightly as she did. But she didn't notice this, too focused on scanning the environment the way she had been trained to all her life.

Then, there was a little rustling from the bush in front of her. The blonde girl poised herself for battle, prepared to lunge herself forward, dress or no dress, to meet the foe.

The foe, however, presented itself to be quite different from what she had imagined. A small brown head popped up behind the rustling bush, before the small body it was attached to followed. "Cowboy?"

It was a little girl – six years old, at most. Her chocolate-colored hair consisted short, gentle tufts that stuck up around her ears. Her eyes were not large, but very round. They held no fear, even upon gazing at a stranger. She was dressed strangely, but unlike other Capitol citizens, for the colors she bore were more muted, even pleasant, though for the life of her, Astrid could not figure out how overalls were meant to fit with that frilly pink skirt.

"Cowboy!" the child squealed, running towards her, her eyes glowing with elation. It then occurred to Astrid that 'Cowboy' perhaps was the title of the toy.

"Oh, here." She proffered the doll awkwardly to the girl, who happily accepted it.

The child cradled the toy affectionately so gently that you almost imagine that it was a baby. Though Astrid fully intended to walk away now that she had restored the item to its owner, she couldn't help but watch enchanted as the little girl gabbled something excitedly to her 'Cowboy'. The innocence and joy that was revealed to her made her smile. She almost forgot about the horrid events that had transpired.

Almost.

In an unfortunate moment, the owner of the toy chose to gaze up at the blonde girl and she let out a delight gasp, covering her mouth immediately with a small hand. "You're the victor person…uh…uh, Astrid! I saw you on television!"

It struck Astrid that she could deny it. The girl was probably too young to know if she was being lied to, but somehow, instead – "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Wow," the little girl made a large 'o' with her mouth as she said it, pupils widening to gape. "You're really pretty."

"Thank you," Astrid said uncertainly. It was the second time she had heard that tonight, and though this deliverance was probably more sincere than the first, it still didn't sit well with her.

The toddler didn't notice her uneasiness, however, for she was absorbed in a conversation with 'Cowboy'. She whispered something to her doll, and then brought the doll's head near her ear in anticipation of reply, nodding while muttering _'uh-huh, uh-huh, I like that idea.'_ Then the brown-haired girl dropped both of her arms behind her and faced the taller stranger.

"Cowboy wants you to play with us," was the message the little girl 'relayed' from her plush friend. "Will you?" She tucked the doll under her arm, then placed her two palms together. "Please?"

A refusal was on the tip of Astrid's tongue. She wasn't supposed to be this deep into the President's gardens. She was supposed to be celebrated and admired back in the party grounds. But then she remembered how furious her Capitol escort looked, and the tauntingly smirks that decorated Flynn's countenance, and that haunting possibility of a doom hanging over her head.

"Okay, why not?" She was in no hurry to return.

The little girl was extremely enthusiastic about dragging her newfound playmate to another section of the gardens, to a square that held a fountain. Astrid noted that on the ledge of the fountain sat an assortment of toys that she had never seen before. Some of them were plush creatures. Others were made of hard plastic or rubber. One of the toys which resembled a dog actually had a spring coil for an abdomen, something that she found rather fascinating as a design. Another of them appeared to be a lump of potato studded with plastic pieces that formed on it a rotund face and body. There was also another cotton-stuff doll seemed to be a female version of 'Cowboy', sagging from her sitting position.

The little girl noticed her examining the doll sitting by the fountain, so she scooped it up and held it towards her. "This is Cowgirl. She and Cowboy are both from District 10, because they look after cows."

Astrid blinked as she absorbed this piece of knowledge, taking up 'Cowgirl' in her hand. "Oh."

The toy owner darted to another end of the fountain, picking up potato-like toy. "This one is Mr. Potato Head. He's from District 11, because he does farming." There was apparently another potato-bodied toy sitting on the ledge, and the little girl pointed to it. "That's Mrs. Potato Head. She's his wife. She's also from District 11."

She went down the line of toys so quickly that Astrid found herself growing more befuddled by the names of the creatures, their districts and the reasons why they were in those districts.

"Sorry, um-" the blonde interrupted the little girl, only to realize she didn't know her name, "-what's your name?"

The girl said with a cheerful smile, "Bonnie."

"Well, um, Bonnie," Astrid stared down at the toys lined around the circular ledge of the fountain. She never played with toys before, so she wasn't sure what exactly to do "-what exactly is the game that we're playing?"

The little girl let out an adorable giggle. "We're playing the 75th Hunger Games! See." She gestured at fountain ledge. "This is the Arena. It's one big ocean. The fountain-" she pointed at the statue spouting the water "-is the Cornu-Cornu-" she struggled with the pronunciation, then gave up "-the Horn! And these-" she took up one of the toy dolls "-are the tributes!" She made the doll wave its hand all while wearing a delighted beam on her own little face.

All color was drained immediately from Astrid's countenance.

Bonnie didn't see this reaction, deciding to start the game on her own. "Bong-Bong!" she imitated the ringing of the gong. "The Hunger Games have started! May the odds be in your favor! Hurry, Cowboy!" She grabbed her cotton toy, waving him over the water. In a lower pitch voice, she made the doll lament, "Oh, no, I can't swim! What should I do?" Then she threw down the doll and picked up one of her plastic toys – the one that resembled a large green lizard. She play-acted him crying out in a squeaky manner, "I can't swim either! My arms are too short! AHHH!" She dropped him into the fountain pool. "Boom! Rex from District 1 is dead!"

Astrid could only watch in horror as the girl went down the line of toys, flinging the plastic ones into the pool and those not outside the pool, passing her judgment over their imaginary lives, ignorant of how her older playmate trembled. The blonde girl didn't know when it started, but she felt her knees were buckling. Her arms were shaking. She wanted to tear her eyes away, but she couldn't.

"Bsh! Bsh! Bsh!" Bonnie made the porcupine plush toy stab his blunted spines against 'Mr. Potato Head'. "Die! Die!"

 _"Run!" he cried to his district mate, who disappeared into the foliage of the Autumn Quarter. She threw him to the ground, and her axe. The bones cracked under the force and hot_ _liquid_ _splattered itself on her face. She was panting heavily, still stunned by what she had just done. This was_ _it – her first kill. Her first blood._

As the porcupine pommeled his foe, the little girl adopted a low voice, "Argh! It's so painful! Stop it!" Then she made the porcupine bellow an evil laugh, snarling, "Never!"

 _There was something in her chest – a knife perhaps? Whatever it was, it hurt. Her shirt felt wet and warm, and she couldn't breathe. Her vision started to blot out everything while eyes rolled back. She had lost control of her body and she could feel life draining out of her._

 _There was a voice telling her to fight the pull. He called her by name. He called her a warrior. She couldn't pay much attention though. She was too busy trying to die._

"Leave my husband alone, you nasty porcupine!" 'Mrs. Potato Head' came to the other potato toy's rescue. "Hyyyyy-yah!" Bonnie made her deliver a kick to the porcupine, who stumbled back and fell off the curb, presumably killed by the blow. The female potato toy was then bent before the male potato toy, shaking her head – which was essentially her body - "No, no, please don't leave me!"

 _"Hiccup, get back here!" Shouting hurt her wounded abdomen, but she didn't care. He wasn't going to sacrifice for her again. He wasn't going to leave her behind. She wasn't going to let him play hero. Not this time. "Hiccup Haddock! Get back right now! HICCUP!"_

 _But he never looked back. He flew off on the back of the black dragon, disappearing into the sky, on the way to complete some crazy suicide mission, on his way to save her life._

"Astrid? Are you okay?"

That tiny, gentle voice was enough to break her out her haunted reverie, and it was only then that she realized she had at some point ended up kneeling on the floor. Examining her gown, she sighed as she noted how the blue satin was now stained with dirt and mud. The blonde girl pushed back her fringe as she lifted her head towards Bonnie, who was peering at her with great concern. In her arms, she held the stuffed porcupine and 'Mr. Potato Head' with unmistakable affection. In spite of the violence that she had innocuously forced them under, the girl still showed love for her toys.

Astrid felt like shouting at the girl, cursing her and shaking her. The Games were not something to be taken so lightly! But then, when she saw how the toddler cocked her head at her, with her toys held at her breast. There was no malice in her expression, only worried innocence. In District 2, she herself had grown up learning that being reaped was a great honor and opportunity, and despite having watched the brutal killings of Hunger Games re-runs, she had believed it. In the Capitol, the Hunger Games was nothing more than sport – entertainment. Something to keep the citizens occupied in between stuffing food in their faces and sleep. A child like Bonnie couldn't be faulted for imitating what she had seen on television. To her, it was all fed through the screen. She probably thought it was all play-acting, like how she play-acted with her toys.

"...Yes, I'm fine," Astrid finally answered, though cold sweat still trickled down her forehead. She wiped it off with the heel of her palm, putting on a watery smile.

The child, for all the naivety, was observant enough as not to be completely convinced. In a small voice, she asked, "Do you still want to play?"

The elder girl paused, before saying, "Yes, but perhaps-" she looked at the toys scattered around the fountain "-let's play another game."

Somehow or another, Astrid managed to convince her young companion that they make the toys have a race instead. It was still fierce competition between the motley crew, and there were winners and losers, but no one got seriously hurt. It was all just fun and games.

"Ride like the wind, Bullseye!" Bonnie squealed as she made the floppy stuffed horse gallop forward, with the cowboy doll seated on it at the same time. To help emphasize it, Astrid grabbed some leaves that had fallen from the trees surrounding them and blew it towards the horse, who Bonnie decided had suddenly gained magically abilities in flight and rode the wind, jumping past the finish line that they had marked with a trail of water.

"Yes! We did it!" the little girl crowed, jumping around and waving 'Cowboy' and his steed. "We won the race! We are the victors!"

"Winners," Astrid corrected absentmindedly. The term 'victor' had too much history attached to it for her to associate it with simple winning.

"We are the champions!" Bonnie declared, running up to the older girl. She crooked Cowboy's arm up, such that his wooden-carved hand was faced upwards toward Astrid.

With a slight yet sincere laugh, the playmate pressed her much larger palm against the small one of the toy, which set Bonnie giggling in joy. Astrid could not help but beam at the obvious enjoyment the young girl derived from this.

"ASTRID!"

The affected accent was one she had learnt too well from the Tour period. Astrid winced. She was in big trouble.

The company that approached them consisted her flamboyantly dressed and extremely unwelcome Capitol escort, her prep team, a few Peacekeepers and several Capitol attendants. Let out a shriek, Bonnie darted behind the taller girl, probably scared by the crowd. Astrid let her, glaring down the party of killjoys.

"Look at your dress," mourned one of the prep, who gestured at the ruined hem and the tattered fabric. Another one dismayed at the state of her hairdress, while other wept over the state of her make-up. The blonde victor merely sniffed at their comments. She had to kneel down on the stone-covered ground to move the toys around during the game, so it was unavoidable that it got damaged.

"The President's entrance to the party is in three minutes! You have to presentable for it!" her Capitol escort went on, waving his hands frantically. The prep team started fussing more loudly in response.

It was then that Astrid noticed that the Capitol attendants had beckoned Bonnie towards them, which she did with much hesitation. Some of these attendants began to pick up the toys scatter around the fountain base. It was odd how solemnly they did, as if they were participants of a sacred ritual. The Peacekeepers, who Astrid had assumed were here to ensure that she returned to the main party grounds, actually moved towards the little brunette girl instead, surrounding themselves around her.

She watched as one of the Capitol attendants knelt herself before the little girl, seeming to be scold her. Bonnie turned crimson, and her head hung low in guilt. 'Cowboy' was clutched behind her back. The attendant then said something grim, to which the young charge nodded to. The Capitol attendant rose back to her feet, and told Bonnie, "Say goodbye, Miss Anderson."

Magically, all her prep team suddenly stopped their fretting over Astrid, moving aside so quickly that she wondered if they were afraid of this young girl. Bonnie stepped forward shyly, glancing anxiously at all the adults that were watching her, before stuttering out to Astrid, "Goodbye."

"Say thank you," the Capitol attendant said in a hollow tone.

"Thank you," Bonnie repeated, not quite meeting her eyes.

Feeling uncomfortable with all the witnesses, Astrid just nodded, saying awkwardly, "Your welcome, I guess. It was … fun." She peered uncertainly at her prep team and the Capitol team, who had chosen to line themselves up in a straight row respectfully. It was as if this were a funeral, by how they acted.

"Will you come and play again?" Bonnie asked unprompted, her round eyes gazing up at the elder girl.

Astrid looked up at the Capitol attendant who was seemed to be the caretaker. The uniformed woman shook her head. Gazing down at the child, whose expression pleaded her to concede, Astrid's heart went out to her without meaning to. A white lie couldn't hurt much. "Maybe. If I'm wanted, I guess."

This fragment of hope made Bonnie's face light up, but the Capitol attendant standing behind looked disapproving. Astrid didn't care. At least one of them should get to be happy by the end of tonight.

"Alright. Come along, Miss Anderson," the attendant called to the girl, who obediently went by her side. The woman took Bonnie's hand and led her away from the fountain along with the other toy-bearing attendants. The Peacekeepers lined themselves in formation behind them.

"Alright," the whiny Capitol escort clapped his hands together. "We've got two minutes! Two minutes to be fabulous and gorgeous again."

Her prep team hooked their own arms with hers as they steered her down the path to the party. Astrid shot one last look at the company that escorting Bonnie away and wondered. She then asked one of the make-up artists, "Who was that girl?"

The Capitol citizen gave her a stunned look, before letting out an exaggerated giggle. "Why, that's Bonnie Anderson - the President's granddaughter."

* * *

 **Capitol Undergrounds**

 **Butterfly Room**

Alarms blared. Peacekeepers marched hastily about. Security control was in full swing.

Next to one of the lower floor laboratories, a door of the storage rooms creaked open slightly. A green eye appeared at the gap, darted back and forth. Deciding the coast was clear, the door was pushed open further, and the blonde girl, with her golden tresses tucked under one arm, tore down the corridor. Frantic voices spilled from the path before her, so she hurriedly took a turn. Panting and heaving, she glanced down at the map her arm.

Rapunzel hadn't managed to get hold of any writing materials from the scientists recently – they had been watching her more closely – but she had managed to swipe a syringe needle. Since the only ink she had in supply was her blood, she used it to write down all the information that she learnt from each escape – deserted walkways, hidden doors, corners for hidden and so forth. These she recorded onto the wooden backing under her bed, into a map of the Undergrounds facilities. It wasn't complete, and she doubt she could ever complete it, but with each try, she noticed it took longer before the Capitol guards caught up with her. There was progress.

Before she attempted this particular prison break, she had copied the map to her arm. Again, there was no ink, so she had used the needle to etch the detail into her skin. It did hurt, but it didn't matter. She could heal herself later.

When she reached Surveillance Post 1, she quickly slunk behind one of the cabinets nearby for the post was still full of Peacekeepers, reloading their tranquilizer guns and waiting for orders. She forced herself to take even breaths. Last time she made the mistake of panting too loudly and that resulted in her getting caught.

It took a minute or two before she overheard the buzz as the communicators of the Peacekeepers sprang to life, giving them new orders to go down to the lower sector where disturbance was registered. Rapunzel allowed herself a small grin. Before ending up at her particular spot, she had started a fire on the lower sector and let a couple of guards see her there. She then took a hidden shortcut from that place and hid in a few empty laboratories before darting over here. Now, all the guards were going where she had been a few minutes ago, leaving the surveillance post empty.

Once she made sure of them were gone, Rapunzel rolled out her hiding place, scrambling to her feet. The door of the surveillance posts was always bolted, but there was a glass viewing point that allowed her to watch at the surveillance screens without entering the room itself.

Her eyes flitted through the names of the filmed areas and compared them to the bloodied map on her arm. Sector 45, which was closest to where she was, was mostly empty, but the adjacent sector was packed with moving Peacekeepers. There was a connecting enclosure between the Sector 45 and the much emptier Sector 53, where she suspected would take her beyond anywhere that she'd had explored before. She had heard the scientists and jailers talking about a place called 'The Scare Floor'. Maybe if she could find it, she could find a way out.

Removing the needle that she had stuck into a clump of her hair, Rapunzel scratched out an addition of her floor plan on her arm, biting her teeth as the new gnashes formed. It took a while but she managed to finish it quickly.

With her new plan in mind, Rapunzel left the surveillance post, following the floor plan on her arm through sector 45, before stopping at the desired enclosure. But when she reached the door, she realized that it was only accessible by card.

She let an annoyed huff at herself. She should have thought of a way to swipe one of those cards. She had to admit though, out everything that she had managed to steal before, she had never managed to get a card. She heard that all staff, from the researchers even down to the Avoxes protected their cards with their life. Without it, she has heard them exclaim, they could be stuck in the Butterfly Room forever – like her.

Just then, she saw the twin doors of the enclosure opening up. Panicking, she spied a large pillar in the middle of the walkway, so she hid herself behind, both arms now scooping up the golden strands. She listened carefully.

She heard steps coming towards her, and sure enough, a figure in a white coat passed the pillar. It was that purple-skinned scientist, the one who looked like a snake. She had spotted him before in the observation deck when they strapped her to the bed and did their examinations. There was this creepy aura about him. Perhaps it was how he seemed to enjoy watching all the horrible procedures being carried out. She wouldn't be surprised if he drank blood or ate human flesh in secret.

He didn't notice her at all, going through the hall and down the corridor, brooding over something or another. Rapunzel cautiously moved out from behind the pillar and spun around, just in time to watch the sliding doors drawing themselves to a close. In a moment of quick thinking, she sprinted forward, hair and all, skidding across the metal tiled floor through the narrowing gap of the doorway. Just as she managed to tug in every loop of her hair, the doors slammed against each other in a finalistic thud. She was in the enclosure.

Dropping the golden cords to rest her arms, Rapunzel scanned her surroundings. This enclosure was unusual, for instead of the normal glass box that the scientists put her in, this one had a long tunneled pathway connecting the entrance to the main body of the enclosure. She walked down the tunnel, hair trailing behind her, watching out for the gleaming lens of surveillance cameras.

The sight that greeted her at the end of her journey was one that she did not expect. It appeared to be an indoor garden, awash with beautiful golden lilies, all line neatly in rows and columns. She stepped forward, slightly dazzling by the astonishing sight. It seemed around fifty or so lilies were grown together on a square patch of enclosed further in a glass cabinet. As far as her eyes could see, there about ten of these patches stretched across these grounds. Walkways were constructed in between these growth spaces, presumably for researches to move around in.

Rapunzel moved down the path between the gardens, not quite able to take her eyes off these golden flowers. There was something remarkably enchanting about them. She could almost imagine that they were glowing in the dim-lighting. It remained her of something, something that should be really familiar…

She noted that there were holographic screens floating around each mini-glass enclosure, bearing numbers in relation to humidity and sunlight strength. There were these little diagrams and graphs on the screen that she didn't understand, but she could guess that these were probably monitors for the health of the plants. Why grow these plants in the middle of the Butterfly Room, she didn't know, and she didn't really have time to find out.

According to the rough floor map she had on her arm, there should be another exit for through this glass garden, so Rapunzel set out to find it. However, just as she made it to cross the centre of enclosure, she heard furious growl and found herself thrown back on the floor.

The blonde girl gasped as the golden locks fell from her arms, sprawled on the cold tiles with her body. When she raised her head, all she registered was that there was a beastly creature towering over her. Shape-wise, it resembled a horse, but its coat was a grainy black and its eyes were a furious yellow. The creature snarled at her, shaking back its mane, making the black locks whip around its angular head like a flame in the wind. The beast gnashed its teeth together, hissing and spitting. Its hooves clapped dangerously against the floor as it approached her. Rapunzel edged herself backwards, an anxious whimper escaping her throat, but the creature continued its march towards her, seeming to grow larger with every step it towards her.

Then, her back hit one of the glass panels of the framed garden patches, blocking any further attempt at escape. The horse-like creature noted that it had cornered its prey. It raised its front legs, kicking up a fury and snorting wildly. As a futile effort to protect herself, Rapunzel raised her arms in front of her head. Any damage caused now, she could heal later – provided she was conscious enough to sing for herself.

Just then, she heard a sharp bark – not from the beast, but a human being, for it was the barking of words. Through her fingers, she watched as the black creature halted its assault upon her and retreated slowly. She heard continued mutterings, quiet commands, and then she saw a dark figure draw-up to the side of the horse creature. The tall, thin figure murmured softly in the beast's ear, and the infuriated snorts calmed. The black horse still ground its hooves against the floor, as if preparing to charge towards her, but it made no move to do so. It was only then that Rapunzel dare to scurry back to her feet, her heart thumping rapidly against her ribs.

"He's a beautiful muttation, isn't? One of the most gorgeous ever made, I must say." The figure ran his through the beast's mane affectionately. "Of course, I apologize for his behavior. You see, he's programmed to maul everyone in here to death. That is, unless I tell him not to." His voice was cold and dead, but like the stallion, his eyes also seemed to glow a silvery-gold shade. "Few are authorized to enter the Garden of Eden, even amongst the working force of the Undergrounds."

"The Garden of Eden?" she found herself repeating without meaning to. The name was strange to her.

"Ah, you probably do not know the story." Even in the dim lighting, her eyes caught the amused smile twisting itself on the gaunt face of her 'savior'. She could see thin lips moving. "It's one from before the time of the Great Disaster, way, way before the birth of Panem. Well,-" the dark figure stepped towards her, and instinctively she tried to step back, only for her to her back to hit the glass once more, "-it said that once upon a time, there was a garden that bore a special tree, one that gave immortal life. Of course, you can see that we have no trees here. Only-" gold eyes flitted briefly to the plants in the glass cases "- flowers."

He was standing about two feet in front of her before she managed to get a good look at his face. His skin appeared to be a pale grey shade. His nose was long and pointed, and his jaw was hard. A memory from the back of her mind resurfaced, and she knew where she had once seen him.

"At the training centre. Before the Games." He offered her a cold smile and a nod. "You were one of the Gamemakers."

"The _Head_ Gamemaker, actually," he rectified her error. "They had since repositioned me due to certain, well _, complications_ of which you might have played a role in creating."

Rapunzel didn't know if she was perplexed or afraid. "I d-don't know what you mean."

"Of course you don't know," he beamed at her patronizingly. "You're just a pawn. I don't expect you to know anything. Come on now,-" He beckoned her to follow down him as he headed down one of the openings "-unless you want me to set him on you again."

Rapunzel took one look at the snorting horse, who was still glaring at her. Seeing that she had no choice, she followed the darkly-robed man.

Down the path he went, Rapunzel realized that the 'Garden of Eden' enclosure was much larger than she thought. Dozens of glass cases bearing little plantations of the gold flowers lining every inch of her sight, and it was only in the very centre of the whole enclosure that there was a clearing, lined with computers, monitors and other machinery. This was probably the central control for the garden.

Besides the machines, there was a small pavilion constructed in the control; one that with roofed and surrounded by colorful, but non-glowing, flowers that were clearly there for decoration only. The pale, tall man ascended the steps of the pavilion, his long robes falling onto the steps as he did. Apprehensively, Rapunzel followed him, her golden hair tumbling back behind her. There was a white marble table in the centre of the pavilion, and the man took a seat on one of the polished stools around it. He gestured for her to do the same, and Rapunzel did, trembling. She wished that she had Pascal here. Pascal always gave her a sense of comfort and security. But then again, she would not condemn her chameleon friend to share her struggles in the Undergrounds.

"Perhaps let us start with some introductions," the ex-Gamemaker said in what was almost a polite tone. "I think it will make it easier for us to be honest with one another." He raised a bony hand towards himself. "Pitch Black. Head of the Undergrounds."

"Rapunzel." Her answer was short so that she could hide how much a voice quivered. There was a bitter note when she added, "Prisoner of the Undergrounds."

"Yes, I'm quite aware." He gave her a thin smile. "You have, after all, been causing no end of trouble to my operatives. We are quite exasperated with you."

Rapunzel didn't reply, but there was a rebellious gleam in her eye, one that was not at all sorry for causing trouble for her captors. After all, what peace did she owe them?

The one called Pitch Black seemed to sense her defiance, but this did not frustrate him. Instead, that nasty smile of his widened. "You have a fighting spirit. That's quite admirable. Unfortunately,-" he let out a regretful sigh, though its earnestness was something that Rapunzel doubted, "-we're moving towards some major breakthroughs, and your constant breakouts are rather distracting. I would like to ask you, plainly, to stop fighting. Please. It's quite pointless. You'll never make it out of the Butterfly Room."

"So you think," she muttered under her breath.

The grey man however had sharp ears. "Oh? You may have yet to experience it, but the entire Underground is booby-trapped. Without the correct passcodes or the relevant documents or, very simply, the wrong identity, you could be drowned, shredded into ribbons or eaten alive. For example -" he inclined his head meaningfully towards the black muttation, who had followed them to the control centre but kept its distance from the pavilion. "It would be most unfortunate if the girl with healing powers was killed before the secrets behind her gift are fully unlocked. Immortality, after all, is a very useful field of study."

As he said this, Rapunzel unconsciously gripped a lock of her hair, bringing it close to her chest. The coil in her hand was a mix of gold and brown – the brown coming from the time that some of her hair got cut in the Arena.

"But that's the problem, isn't it? You have to keep me alive, because you don't know if my hair would work if I'm dead." Rapunzel found herself saying, starting soft but slowly rising in a righteous crescendo. That held the hair clenched itself into a fist." Even if I get hurt, you people have to keep healing me for your studies, and because of that, I stay strong – strong enough to fight _you_." She rose slightly from her seat, filled with an unusual boldness, staring straight at him. "I'm not afraid of you, so do your worst. I always get back on my feet. One day, I will leave. I'll escape!" She nodded firmly for emphasis. "And you'll _never_ get to use my hair again."

She expected her triumphant declaration to be met with mockery, but the Head of the Underground seemed to take her words quite seriously. He spent a few quiet moments assessing her, before finally saying, "Yes, yes. I do think you might actually have a chance of accomplishing that."

"You do?" Rapunzel sank back down in her seat, shocked.

"No matter what people have claimed, individuals have escaped the Butterfly Room before – precious few, perhaps. But they were talented individuals." He murmured these thoughtfully, as if he were speaking to himself and not to her. "Do you have that ability? Probably. The determination? Likely." He hummed in thought. "It is possible that I've underestimated you thus far."

"You have?" The girl was still stunned by the frankness of this declaration.

He cocked his head toward her, a fresh steeliness entering his gaze. "Maybe, then, I should give you an incentive."

Rapunzel scoffed at him, her back drawn up straight and proud. "If you're trying to cower me in submission, it won't work. Like I said, there's nothing you can do that can really hurt me."

"Perhaps, perhaps," Pitch admitted, pulling back his black sleeves. "But maybe I don't need to hurt _you_." One thin, spider-like finger drew itself across the marble surface of the table. In an offhand tone, he said, "Tell me, my dear, on a scale of one to ten, how much affection do you still bear towards a certain Flynn Rider?"

She blinked at him, startled. "What?"

"I admit it's probably been a long time since you've seen him, so I completely understand if you completely apathetic about the cretin – I know I am." A sneering sound rumbled from the back of his throat. "Of course, I'm assuming that teary, heart-wrenching farewell embrace meant _absolutely nothing_."

It took a while for Rapunzel's memories to adjust themselves in her head. After all, she had been focused so long on breaking free from her current prison that she had wasted no time on dwelling on the past. But the words were a trigger to her recollections, and she remembered full well the last time she saw him face to face in the elevator, the one that took her down to the flight station where Hovercrafts would whisk her off to the Arena. Before they parted, she had promised that she would hope, that she would _fight_. He had promised that he would wait for her.

"And there were also occasions of fond exchanges, if I'm not wrong," Pitch went on nonchalantly. "And also this particularly interesting one…what is it about?" He tapped his chin in an exaggerated show of thinking. "Perhaps something about a false name?" He let out a low chuckle that made Rapunzel's hair stand, setting goosebumps running over skin. "The Capitol adores Flynn Rider. Could you imagine how _horrified_ and _humiliated_ they would be if they discovered that he actually a 'Eugene Fitzherbert'?"

Perhaps something in her expression gave away her bafflement, for he then explained, "There's little that escapes the ears of the Secret Police. It's been known amongst us for some time that Fitzherbert had been parading under another name. We just haven't made it public. Of course-" he spread a palm across his chest in disdainful remorse "-if this piece of information was, let's say, leaked out by _complete accident_ , well,-" he shook his head "-the Capitol would have no choice but to take action. An act of deceit, no matter how small, cannot be tolerated. The Capitol cannot be embarrassed in such a manner. He would be made a demonstration, which I assure you,-" there was a wicked enjoyment in his snicker "-will be torturous, arduous punishment. If he's lucky, infection would kill him within the first few weeks."

"No!" the words flew out before she could stop it, but by the time Rapunzel clamped a hand over her mouth, Pitch had heard it. It told him well enough how _not_ apathetic she was towards her ex-Games' mentor.

"Well, this is part where you and I make a deal," he told her, smug and victorious. "I'll keep this piece of information from reaching to the Capitol public. In return, I expect you to be the model prisoner - compliant and obedient. What do you say to that?"

Rapunzel was conflicted, of course. Part of her thought of throwing the deal back in the ex-Gamemakers' face. After all, she barely knew Flynn – they had only been together for perhaps a week before she was sent into the Arena. Why she should she give up her chance at freedom for his?

But then she thought of the screams that came from the cells adjacent to hers. She thought of the enclosures that she had been led past in the duration of her incarceration. Could she let him undergo that?

Maybe she didn't know Flynn, but she did know Eugene. In that short time that they had spent together, she knew that there was a bond between them. It wasn't love – the Games was not the right environment to nurture such – but there was the possibility of it. A dream of it. A dream that they both shared.

It was then that she realized that she couldn't even bear the thought of him suffering in her place.

"If I do what you say," Rapunzel began slowly, almost not believing the words that fell from her lips, "you have to promise to no harm be fall on him. None at all."

"Promise? A curious choice of words." Pitch noted with interest, reclining back slightly.

"I don't know about you, but I never break a promise," she told him. When he raised a brow at her, she added with emphasis, " _Never._ "

Considering her for a moment, Pitch then said, "Very well then, since it's so important to you, I _promise_ that I will tell no one Flynn Rider's true name."

"That's not good enough," the girl insisted sternly, knitting her brows together. "You have to promise that all your operatives and associates won't harm him."

"You demand quite a bit for someone who's at my mercy, you know," he remarked.

"I'm not at your mercy yet, _Pitch_ ," she was almost spitting his name. Even when she was afraid, she had spirit. "If you want my full cooperation, you have to promise that your people won't hurt him, no matter what."

The ex-Head Gamemaker sighed. "Very well, then. I promise that he will not be harmed by my minions or associates, as long as it is within my knowledge. Is that reasonable enough?"

With much reluctance, the girl nodded.

"Good, now it's your turn."

Rapunzel felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as she said, "I promise that I'll be a good prisoner. I won't try to escape anymore. I'll cooperate. I'll-" her lips were shaking "-I'll do anything that you want me to do."

"Done!" He suddenly grasped onto her hand and shook it hard. His grip was strong and it hurt. She couldn't help but wince, for that hand was attached the arm still covered in the raw incisions that was her escape plan.

For the first time since she had arrived here, Rapunzel felt the true weight of her chains.

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **Those were two very long POVs from our blondes. To be very honest, I've been planning to write these scenes for a very long time.**

 **A little warning: I've written quite a lengthy explanation/mini-behind-the-scenes about certain parts of this chapter and what it means and it's quite long. I marked them in **asterisks**, so you can skip them if you're tired of reading so much and if you don't want to spoil yourself in the future. Or, you know, you could just skip everything… I don't judge.**

 **The dance with Flynn and Astrid is inspired by the one Katniss had with Plutarch in the** _ **Catching Fire**_ **, during the Victor's Party, but without the rebel hint. (I don't even think there'll be a Plutarch counterpart in this AU).**

 **For those who haven't watched Toy Story 3, (SPOILERS, but seriously, why haven't you watched this?) Bonnie Anderson is a cute little girl who ends up inheriting Andy's Toys. If you can name all the toys mentioned, I salute you. That said, as I haven't decided if I want to include more human!Toy Story characters, it might be possible that a human!Woody and gang might turn up later. For now, they're just toys, and of all things, Bonnie is President Lotso's granddaughter.**

 **Golden Glowing Flowers? Hmmm…does that ring any bells?**

 **Rapunzel's segment is based on the scene in** _ **Tangled**_ **where she bargains with Gothel for Eugene's life in return for her cooperation. I don't think I can say more about this part without giving spoilers.**

 ****If you don't understand what Flynn was implying when he asked Astrid for her age and told her that there were people who said that she was attractive…you've either never encountered the original THG material, or you're really innocent (which is good for you). I'm still deciding how much or little I will talk about this. It's not horribly important for the plot, but it's pretty important for character development. For all THG watchers/readers who still don't get it, note that Flynn's position in this AU is based heavily on Finnick Odair (yes, I finally admit it outright). There're two scenes in the book where Katniss contemplates on how her position as victor could end up being much like Finnick's, which inspired the conversation here. Unlike Katniss though, Astrid doesn't have a love story to protect her from getting propositioned, but at least she's an orphan. It helps tremendously when you don't have people you care about.**

 **The scene where Bonnie re-enacts the Hunger Games with her toys is actually inspired by a scene in** _ **The Hunger Games**_ **movie where Haymitch watches a pair of Capitol children pretending to kill each other while their parents watch on lovingly. Making the toys play '75** **th** **Hunger Games' around a circular fountain also mirrors the 75** **th** **Hunger Games in the books, which took had a large water centre (because it's likely that I won't be doing a 75** **th** **Hunger Games with these stories). I actually felt quite horrible when I wrote this part. I might have subjected my dolls to cruel storylines when I played with them…**

 **Basically, despite the top half segment being all in Astrid POV, she's not the star here. Flynn and Bonnie are. Flynn, despite having achieved so much as a victor and being so handsome, talented and smart, has little choice over his life – or even his own body - which is in the hands of the Capitol. On the other hand, Bonnie, who though is now unremarkable and innocent, as the granddaughter of the President will probably one day have power over the lives of others, represented by the way she has power over the lives of her toys. Basically, Flynn's a toy. Bonnie's a player. Astrid's starting to realize that she risks becoming the former. Being a victor isn't that awesome after all, is it?**

 **Why do I write all this stuff here instead of putting it in the story? Because I can't put it in without disrupting the flow.****

 **I am sorry that the pace for the story is quite sedate at the moment. Don't worry – war is brewing. You will get your blood. But there's a lot of character development that I've yet to cover, and some important plot points to bring out.** **Before** **there can be battle, there must be things and people worth fighting for.**

 **Up Next: Someone else also makes a comeback (*coughs*was supposed to be in this chapter*cough*). I'm not very sure what else happens. It could be chaos, it could be peace. It's mostly like chaos though.**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I'll be disappearing for vacation for a while, so I'm afraid the next update after this would probably be in July.**

 **That said, I have a beta! Thank you** _ **SpinItHypo**_ **for** **offering** **to** **help me out here** **! Grammar shalt flee mine presence!**

… **And I've just massacred archaic talk. Yay.**

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 **skyline 10: I do think I have a plot twist or two up my sleeves, so I do look forward to spinning it. Hope you enjoy this! Thank you for your review!**

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	7. Chapter 6: Songs of Innocence

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 6: Songs of Innocence

* * *

 **Capitol Undergrounds**

 **Butterfly Room**

After he had ensured that the girl was returned to her cell and that she stayed there, Pitch made his way through the Undergrounds passages, arriving at the operating theatre. Entering inside, he found that it was almost completely dark. The only light was emitted from the holographic screens near the centre of the theatre, where the operation table was.

Pitch navigated his way past the technicians and assistants, who were only there to ensure that all the machines were smoothly running so that there were no interruptions during the procedure. Dr. Randall Boggs, who was the director of the operation, stood on the observation deck, where he would instruct the doctors and nurses according to plan and ensure that all ran smoothly. Pitch could have gone to join him up there, but seeking a more intimate view, he decided to go into the stage of the operating theatre itself. It was his show, after all, and he intended to see it play out in all its glory.

It was Pitch who had told Randall to seek out the doctor in District 12 - the one who performed the operation of the ice mutant's sister. After all, this girl was the only known survivor of an ice-blast to an organ. If they were to reviving someone who had been struck to the heart, they had to done with a similar procedure. The old victor had indeed, after much … pressure, revealed much needed details that helped them to design the operation that was to be conducted today.

The whole operation was done by machine, for there was no strength of man able to slice the frozen flesh. They had taken several scans of the frozen body prior to today to construct a three-dimensional map of his entire body in all systems; everything from skeletal to circulatory. This was used to plot the route for the travel of their instruments through the body. All programmed coordinates were checked often, with re-scans taken every fifteen minutes to ensure that their information was consistently accurate. Even now, the body's interior side was still being monitored with scans so that they could measure his homeostatic responses in situ during the procedure - just in case they accidentally punctured a vital organ halfway through. You'd never know.

The body had been stuck in an ice prism literally since the first day they brought it here. So they had it sliced out with laser and placed in a thermostatically-controlled glass chamber at the centre of the theatre, right over the operating table. They called it 'the operation box', for it seemed appropriate enough.

The surgeons and nurses all stood around the outside of the sealed chamber, their fingers darting over the computer interfaces rapidly. Last minute checks were done on the charts flashing the vital signs to ensure steady health before starting the operation. Incision coordinates were confirmed [and] re-confirmed by the teams in charge of programming the automated operators. Surgeons took their places in front of their control interfaces, as nurses ready by their sides to assist. Technicians declared that they had detected less than five percent chance of mechanical error, which made it acceptable for the procedure to carry on. The unpredictable part, however, lay in the patient himself, who himself was the mystery of the hour.

As he eyed their frozen patient, Pitch found an insistent melody ringing his mind - an old mountain song that he had heard long ago. Its rhythm was steady, repetitive and haunting - typical of ballads that had been sung by the District folk before the Great Wars. How did it go again?

Ah. " _Born of cold and winter air,-"_

"All in order, awaiting for instruction," the head surgeon said into his communicator.

"Proceed with the operation," Randall's voice rang in the system. So, it began.

A wire-thin robotic arm rose from within the operation box, controlled from the outside by the anesthetist. The anesthetist and his team then guided the needle, which was capped with a diamond tip, to plunge itself into the muscles around the chest area. Microscopic cameras inserted along the shaft of the needle allowed them to watch the needle travel inside the body, letting them pinpoint suitable areas along the frozen muscles tissue where the anesthesia could be introduced. It might seem odd to drug administer anesthesia to one who had been unconscious for the last six months and had flesh as hard as a rock, but the surgeons did not discount the idea that their patient might still have his sensory neurons intact. High levels of pain might snap him awake and disrupt the procedure, sending it awry and possibly even killing their 'mutant'.

Tension was thick in the atmosphere as all watched, but none could deny the excitement stirring in their own morbid hearts.

A few minutes were given after the drug was introduced to see if there were any observable side effects, but the rock-hard mass of frozen flesh seem quite unchanged – so unchanged that it couldn't be determined if the anesthesia had any effect at all. Eventually, Randall gave the order to carry on. If the patient felt pain, so be it – that was none of their concern. If he disrupted the procedure, they would pin him down till it was done.

" _-and mountain rain combining."_

"Beginning incision," another surgeon announced, her voice echoing through the system. More doctors hunched themselves over their interfaces, eyes fixed on their screens in concentration. Several automated arms sprung to life within the operating box, and according to the program, they poised themselves over the chest of the patient like a dozen gleaming knives, each having a particular vein, capillary or muscular tissue which they were supposed to enter into.

Upon command, these needles sunk themselves into the frozen flesh.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Pitch thought that he saw the stiff body flinch upon impact. But examining it a while longer told him that he might have been mistaken. The boy's expression had not altered in the last six months, so it would not alter now.

" _This icy force both foul and fair,-"_

The needles that they used were flexible and wire-like in mobility, with every inch of it follow the most precise of programming, so the surgeons could control how it twisted, moved and pinched within the body under the guidance of the attached micro-cams. To the faint of heart – pun entirely intended – the sight of the silvery thin tubes slithering into the body, even a pale frozen body, could set one's hair standing. But surgeons of the Underground had done far ghastly deeds to their other patients, such that this procedure was actually quite humane.

The difficulty really lay in the fragility of the operation. Their scans had indicated that the boy still retained the injuries that he had gained six months age – puncture in his shoulder, assortment of abrasions, lacerations along his neck, a few bruised ribs and most dangerously, a hole in the heart. Freezing kept him from bleeding to death, as he should have, but freezing also kept him from healing.

 _"-is a frozen heart worth mining."_

Now, in regular people, a hole in the heart could be repaired by patching it up with a piece of muscle tissue. The Undergrounds had the technology to do that. What they did not have the technology to do was the mend a hole in a heart when the heart that was a lump of ice.

It wasn't _literally_ a lump of ice, of course, but it certainly came rather close. From the the ventricles to atriums to the blood vessels attached to them, the entire heart bore a crystalline appearance. Scans that they had done previously revealed that nearly ninety-five percent of that heart was made of frozen water, and the five percent that wasn't was the little trickle of blood that was agonizingly pumped in and out, as well as the remaining working muscles that conducted this tiring, but necessary deed that kept the near-dead body alive. It was the closest thing that Pitch had ever seen to a miracle.

 _"So cut through the heart, cold and clear-"_

Initial plans of the operation consisted introducing heat into the heart in hope of melting the ice off it. This was based on the information they had wrung out of the District 12 healer, who had said that he saved the girl from her frozen head by cutting out the part of her brain that was frozen. They confirmed that his words were true, judging by the scars on the girl's scalp where the white lock of hair grew. The problem, other than only having one case study to compare, was that only a small part of that girl's brain had been frozen, so slicing off a little flesh didn't hurt much, whereas almost all of boy's heart was frozen. The risk was too great to take.

Nonetheless, they took inspiration from the old man's ramblings. If they could not cut away the ice from the heart, then they would beat his heart for him.

 _"-strike for love and strike for fear."_

From the screens, Pitch observed as four of the inserted needles were directed to enter the heart, one through each of the main vessels into the chamber in to the ventricles. The needles were extremely thin, so that they did not block the blood flow within the heart – no need to worsen the already precarious situation, after all. Through the visuals from the micro-cams, a large wall of ice - ice that was never once warm flesh - could be observed to stretch over the right ventricle. This was the layer of ice that covered the hole in the heart, preventing the blood from leaking out from it, keeping its owner alive.

However, what the ice did not do was repair the muscle tissues along the damaged area of the heart. That was what really kept the heart too weak to pump the blood – not the freezing of it, but its lack of strength. No wonder all motor functions were down. The rest of the body barely got enough blood to kept their cells alive.

Fortunately, that was what they would reverse

 _"See the beauty sharp and sheer."_

The needles inserted into the flesh, though very thin, were actually hollow to allow the introduction of medical fluids and such into the targeted area, not unlike those of the more commonplace hypodermic needle. The difference was that these needles stuck in this particular heart were used not to transfer fluids into the body, but solids - black solids that had been pounded into the thinnest powder. If you looked at them through the microscope, you would think of them as merely black sand.

But this 'black sand' was not the common place 'sand' that one might find on near volcanoes or in the desert. It wasn't even a natural compound. It was, in a matter of fact, a very dangerous substance known as 'Iron Argonite', created by one of Panem's greatest scientists. It was known to be highly reactive with many materials – even air itself. Few at the Capitol dared to handle such a substance. Fortunately, Pitch was not one who feared risks.

Most of the time, Iron Argonite proved toxic and the subjects died during experimentation – they were just prisoners, nothing to worry about. But it was discovered that the substance had rather unique properties when used on muttation and also, yes, the very occasional _mutant_.

Their success and the boy's survival seemed to rest on that simple question – was he a mutant, or was he just a body frozen by a mutant?

 _"Split the ice apart,-"_

Iron Argonite particles were laid out against the interior surface of the heart by the needles. At once, they were absorbed into the frozen, icy cells, blending with them and turning them into a darkened shade. The needles were piloted to continue laying out stripes of this compound against the cold walls, and it continued to sink into the flesh.

The entire operation room was silence as all eyes that were not on the interfaces turned to the one showing the heart-beat. It was a tremendous risk, introducing such a dangerous compound in such a vulnerable place. No one was entirely sure what was going to happen.

Pitch peered at the screen blandly, before casting his eyes upon the unmoving body with the operation box. Though he didn't show it, he too was waiting for an uncertain result.

In a few moments, as the Iron Argonite infected itself into remnants of the heart muscles – muscles that kept the blood pumping – the heart rate started to fall. Drastically.

The frozen heart was dying. Everyone began to panic.

"Pull back!" Randall hollered through the system.

The doctors got to work at once, hastily typing into their interfaces. The long tube-like needles extracted themselves from the body, twisting and sliding out from their places. No sheen of ice crept over the punctures created, as it would have before. The frost that had formed on the wall started to melt. Micro-cams left in the body showed that the heart was changing from its initial white state into a bizarre amalgam of black and frost-blue.

Pitch was the only one who remained unflustered. Under the long sleeves of his robe, he had a thumb rested against his tip of his middle finger.

He snapped his fingers together.

Suddenly, there was a gasp from the operation box. A sharp inhale. There was a sound of coughing as the pale body jerked into motion, arching up before relaxing back down. The screens showed the heart rate rising suddenly zooming up, bouncing up and down.

This unexpected turn of events was met with silence at first, then cautious congratulations and cheers were passed around the theatre, from nurses to doctors to the technical managers. From above, Randall surveyed the scene with sweet pleasure of success. However, Pitch's attentions were focused on the boy lying in the chamber, whose breaths marked a new layer of frost on the glass surface.

The glass surface which suddenly cracked.

It was so loud that everyone in the theatre went silent at once, and if they hadn't shut their mouth then, they would have found themselves swallowing the freezing blizzard smashing against their faces.

The frozen corpse – which was no longer quite a corpse, but still somewhat frozen – seemed to rise from the operating table, carried by the very winds that he had created. His eyes, which had for so long been shut, were very much open and they glowed. In a matter of fact, his entire being glowed.

Snow came ripping down. Hail sailed through the holographic screens and smashed down into the interfaces. The doctors and nurses covered their heads and screamed. Some tried to escape through the exit, only to find themselves carried away by the torrent and slammed against the wall instead.

Despite the surprising change in climate, Pitch held his ground. The wind, while very strong, was not strong enough to make him stagger. With everyone else focused on saving themselves, they paid no attention to him, which made his job much easier.

Raising a gaunt arm towards the floating – dare he say – _flying_ boy, the ex-Gamemaker concentrated his energy at him, then clenched his fist. Hard.

As if a switch had been flipped, the glow surrounding the boy died. The snow, hail, and winds all ceased as he landed on the operating table with painful thump. Their patient sat himself up, panting and coughing as he rubbed the flesh that had been bruised. Perhaps unconsciously, one of his hands ran up his chest. His fingers clawed over his heart, where a dark, ugly patch had appeared on his fair, blue-tinted skin.

He raised his head, turning it towards Pitch, who was then lowering his arm. The boy's white brows knitted themselves together, his countenance twisted in both confusion and agony.

Pitch merely shot him an unnerving smile. "Welcome to the land of the living, Jack Frost."

 _"And_ _ **break**_ _the frozen heart."_

* * *

 **District 13**

"Elsa?" There was a rapping sound. "You awake?"

For a split-second, her drowsy self could almost believe that the eager voice belonged to her sister, but when her eyes opened to the grey-tinted walls and the frost-lined flooring, her heart sunk right back down to her stomach. Groggily, Elsa pushed herself off the metallic slab that was her bed, staring sullenly at the snow pelting down from the ceiling.

"Elsa?" She heard the voice call out again. "You in there?"

If she kept absolutely quiet, the visitor would undoubtedly go away. But this voice belonged to one that she might consider a friendly soul in her cold, friendless existence. He did not come by often, and if she turned him away now, it might be ages before he returned again.

"Give me a moment," she called out hoarsely. The blonde girl was draped in a white nightdress of her own invention. With a little concentration, she transformed it into a long-sleeved shirt and trousers, similar to the uniform that she had seen her fellow District 13 citizens wear. She turned her bed slippers into a pair of army boots and strapped them on.

With a sigh, she departed her bedroom and went out to the meeting chamber. The metal shutters were still drawn, so she turned the switch. Slowly, the blinds rolled themselves up, revealing behind the glass a young boy seated in his chair. He had the mouthpiece of the microphone poised by his mouth. On the table before him, there was a tray of items - a glass of water, a metal headband, and a ... was that a metal _glove_?

"Erm, hi," his voice rang through the system, and she observed him wave sheepishly at her. As usual, his black hair was tousled and unkempt, while his uniform was crumpled from the lack of care. But his eyes were shining bright with excitement in a way that reminded her of Anna when she was up to one of her crazy ideas. "Sorry for waking you up."

"Not a problem," she told him, though she yawned immediately after. Covering her mouth, she then asked, "What can I do for you, Hiro?"

"Well, I was hoping you could help me with an experiment."

Elsa quirked a brow at him. The electrical clock on the wall told her that it was one in the morning. "Right now?"

"If you don't mind, please," he said, his head bobbing up and down in his enthusiasm. He then added in a low tone, "I'm supposed to be doing real work. Don't tell anyone about this."

Elsa appraised him, puzzled, saying uncertainly, "Okay?"

Hiro stretched himself forward to unwind the safety clasp on the small sliding door, the one that was used to move things in and out of the compound. Then, he pressed the three buttons around the door, unlocking it and sliding it open, revealing the compartment inside. He placed the tray carrying the three items into the compartment, then slid the door shut and locked it. Elsa then reached for the sliding door on her side, undoing the clasp and unlocking the sliding door. She pulled the tray out of the compartment drawer and shut the door, locking it back as she did. The minute her fingers touched the tray, a layer of frost began to spread over the items despite her gloves. She quickly dropped it on the table, splashing some of the water from the glass as she did.

"Sorry," she said shamefacedly, not daring to look at Hiro.

"It's alright." The boy waved her mistake away, fiddling with the controls of his motorchair to push himself forward. "Okay, Elsa, I need you to put on the metal brace. You think you can do that without freezing it?"

The blonde girl gazed down at the contraption that rested on the tray that was already covered in a thin sheet of ice. She let out a deep exhale, trying to still her heart. "I'll try."

Elsa removed the glove on her left hand and laid it on the table. Holding her breath, she gingerly lifted the metallic gauntlet from its tray. It was quite heavy, and she could tell by the loose joints and screws that the boy had assembled it in haste, making it even more fragile in her hands. She slipped it over her hand quickly. Immediately, a surge of panic rose in her system. She could feel her left palm burning, aching, the ice pushing against her nerves, leaking into the metal. She frowned bitterly at herself. That was all she was good for, wasn't it?

"Elsa," Hiro's voice buzzed through the room speakers, "you see the headband on the tray? You need to put it on."

She quickly grabbed the item that he referred to. It was also a crude construct, with silicon chips and soldered parts still all exposed. She could feel the ice screaming against her palms, surely threatening to turn Hiro's hard work into a chunk of ice. She placed the headband over her forehead. Anxiously, she asked, "Now what?"

"I want you to pick up the glass of water with the gloved hand,-" he angled his head towards last object on the tray "-and think 'don't freeze'."

She stared at him, incredulous. "What?"

"Just pick up the glass, think 'don't freeze'," he repeated.

"That's not going to work," she said with a frantic expression. The psychologists that worked with her was absolutely that taking control of her own thoughts would help her control her powers, but Elsa had sadly discovered after many attempts that all thoughts - good or bad, calm or agitated - produced ice. There was no way to get around it.

"Hey." Hiro gave her a small smile. "Just trust me."

Elsa took a look at his encouraging expression, let out a doubtful exhale and picked up the glass with her metal-gloved hand. Despite her underlying skepticism, she did as he had asked, focusing intently on not freezing it.

The clear liquid swirled freely in the cup, but a bit of frost had already started to climb up its side. Elsa still continued to hold it steady in her hand, her eyes trained hard upon it, willing it with all her might not to freeze.

And other than that little frost, freeze it did not.

Even after a full minute, the water was still liquid and the glass had yet to crack. Elsa set it back down on the table, amazed. She could hearing Hiro making a whoop in triumph on the other side. She peered at the metal contraption that rested over her glove.

"I knew that it would work!" she heard the boy crow, nearly jumping up in his wheelchair in his joy. It was a good thing he didn't actually jump out, for if he tumbled to the ground right now, Elsa, being stuck in the enclosure, wouldn't be able to help him back up and there would be no one around this time of the night to lend aid. But Hiro didn't really seem to care. "I'm a genius! I'm on fire!"

"But, how?" Elsa asked, twirling her arm around, staring at the gadget with wonder.

"The headband that you're wearing-" Hiro pointed at the metal ornament over her forehead "-is connected to the glove. There are these little devices in the glove that locks themselves into your nervous system via electrical signals and suppresses the part of you that instinctively produces ice. Then, the headband amplifies the signals from left side of your brain - that's the part that controls logic - so that you control your powers with your thoughts rather than your feelings." He nodded at the glass of water. "Just pick up it up and think 'freeze'. You'll see what I mean."

Elsa did pick up the glass with the metal-gloved her hand again and as Hiro said, thought of freezing it. A blue light spurted out that hand and ice wrapped itself around the glass at once, shattering it an explosive 'ping!' that had her staggering back in shock. The water froze before even hitting the ground, breaking into crystal-like fragments on the floorboards.

"O-kay, need to do some adjustments on the feedback," the boy noted in a more humble tone, sighing.

The next few nights were spent like this - Hiro waking her up at wee hours of the morning, tired but eager for her to try a slightly more refined version of his previous contraption. With very little company for most of the day, Elsa welcomed these interruptions despite the inconvenience in timing. Hiro couldn't come at other times, as he had work to do, so who was she to complain?

Many glasses of water were shattered during their attempts, an extravagant waste by District 13's standards of frugality, but they were sacrificed gladly in the name of scientific advancement. The gadgets that she fit over her brow became gradually thinner and the gauntlets that she wore over her hands became lighter. It was learnt during their experiments that covering more part of her skin made it easier for her to control that part of her body. Hiro had some science-based theory on why that was so, but Elsa privately thought it was because covering her skin was an ingrained psychological suppressant of her powers. She worn gloves for so long as a child so subconsciously, covering her skin now resulted in better control for her powers. Whatever the reason, if worked, it worked.

Hiro played with different materials; some more durable in icy conditions, some more flexible as to allow her hand more movement, some that were able to contain more complex programming and so on. Some nights he would leave with a triumphant grin, others he would leave with a brooding scowl. Needless to say, he was very devoted to this project that he had taken upon his shoulders, and Elsa was simply thankful that he bothered at all. Privately, Elsa wondered why he would put in so much effort for her, until it occurred to her that it was not for her as much as himself. Perhaps this was a creative escape for him, away from whatever dull labor the District gave him instead.

One day, he came in with a tray, looking more haggard than usual after a hard day's work, but his face bore a satisfied countenance. As his motorized chair moved him forward, she noted that he carried on his lap a tray covered with a fabric. This he passed to her through the small sliding door.

"Go on," he told her, a weary smile on his face as he slumped himself back on the chair.

She lifted the fabric from the tray and found that beneath it sat two elegant metallic gauntlets. They were much thinner, tailored to fit her arms width and length exactly. There was also a small triangular-ish pin set between them. She peered at this with bewilderment.

"You put it on your head." Hiro indicated, raising his two hands over his head. "Like a tiara. Cool, huh?"

Elsa had her own opinions about giving her 'tiara' for a headpiece, but she didn't have the heart to chide the boy. She could see from the rings under his eyes and how his slouched back into his chair that his day work in the District, whatever it entailed, was clearly grueling, especially to someone of his health. She didn't deserve to criticize him.

So she slipped on the two gauntlets, both comfortably pressed against her skin and only a little heavy. She pulled them up to her elbows and strapped them tight. She then set the triangular 'tiara' over her head. On his side of the glass, Hiro hit a button on the portable computer that he had with him, and this activated the gauntlets. Elsa then lifted the glass of water that he sent in next, using both hands to hold it. As she had come to train herself to do, she focused hard on the cup, telling herself to hold back the cold.

There wasn't as much as a speck of ice.

Then, changing her hold the glass again, she allowed a slow, steady frost to climb over the transparent surface, turning the liquid into solid ice but without cracking the glass.

"I think we're making excellent progress." Hiro gave her a thumbs-up, grinning.

For the first time since what felt like forever, Elsa allowed herself to smile back.

* * *

 _"Your neck abrasions are healing well, Hiccup. In 48.35 hours, they should disappear completely."_

The auburn-headed boy blinked. It had become quite foreign to hear good news coming from the nurse robot. "Oh."

 _"However,-"_ Ah! There's the negative report _"- I detect that there's still continued bruising on your leg. I suggest rest and continued medication-"_

"Okay, thank you for your help, Baymax," Hiccup said, shoving the marshmallow-like robot back towards his red case. "Goodbye! We will not need you any further!"

 _"-Constant pressure on the limbs 3-5 weeks after prosthetic is fitted will only serve agonize the wound. I suggest that-"_

"I'm satisfied with my care!"

As it was programmed to do, the nurse robot shut itself down. Air rushed out of its rubber skin as it deflated itself into the red case. The boy let out a sigh of relief as he warily kneeled himself down (by the right knee, of course. His left one was still hard to maneuvere) to shut the case. Checking that the laces on the shoe of his good foot were done up right, he hurried out his compartment, ready for a day in the District.

Receiving hostility had become almost second nature by now, and Hiccup had whole lists of sarcastic deflections prepared ( _"Why, of course I'm not a spy! I mean, look at this raw rebellion-ness! The Capitol wouldn't know what to do with all this!")._ His snark wasn't appreciated most of the time and he got 'get down and give me twenty' more often than was good for his leg or his personal lack of stamina. But hey, what's life without patching up your stump infections and everyone hating you?

'Everyone' was perhaps an exaggeration. Ralph, the big Eleven guy who was from the Games, was kind to him in his own gruff manner. Hiro, during any of his sporadic appearances, was always civil and eager to help in anything - a result of lingering guilt that Hiccup didn't really want to hold the other boy accountable for. If all of them stuck to their Games-related grudges, all of them would go crazy like, well, a certain redheaded girl.

And then there was the figure who Hiccup dubbed the 'strange-woman-who-watches', or 'SWWW' for short.

He had not really noticed her at first, for he was too busy cooking up snippy comebacks in his head ("I'm no more a snake in the grass than the person standing next to me," he had once argued. The person standing next to him happened to be named 'Viper'. It was very unfortunate) and looking over his shoulder to make sure no one 'accidentally' stabbed him or anything. But as time wore on, he began to notice the SWWW everywhere.

Sometimes, she'd be peeking through the glass of the hospital ward. Other times, she'd be watching from the corner of the waiting room. He had spotted her once or twice in the barrack canteen, seated by a table while some file in her hand, casting glances in his direction occasionally. He had tried asking Ralph who she was, but every time he so much as gestured in her general direction, the SWWW would suddenly disappear, as if she had never been there. His fellow survivor had begun to postulate that the SWWW was just a hallucination of Hiccup's and suggested he see the psychologist.

Naturally, Hiccup refused. He was quite tired of doctors and treatments. He wanted to be functional and useful to this District that was so bent on hating him, if only to prove that he was tame. It would be nice to live somewhere where people didn't see him as the harbinger of doom.

After an awful day of training - where training meant complete physical suffering, our lanky, insufferably snarky one-legged hero had retired to the common hall with his fellow survivor. Ralph, for all his prowess on fieldwork, didn't have an agreeable relationship with the written word. When he had first asked for Hiccup's help, he had implied that he had some issues with the long words. What Hiccup only realized later was that the big boy barely knew that the alphabet in order – and don't even start on grammar and punctuation. The most he knew was numbers, which were enough to guess what was printed on his schedule. Other than that, Ralph's reading ability was as blank as sheet.

Fortunately, Hiccup had nothing better to do with his time, now that he was more or less resigned that the District was hiding Toothless too well and had no intention of giving him over. There were times of the day that he would fret over it, but he reckoned that the sooner he earned the people's trust, the sooner someone would spill about the location of the Night Fury. In the meantime, he took it upon himself to be Ralph's instructor in reading. It was long-drawn process, but the big boy was an eager student, and Hiccup did not dismiss the opportunity to keep himself in someone's good books (pun completely intended), so there was not much to complain about.

During this fine night, they were in the process of browsing through District 13's provided version of Panem's history when Hiccup saw the SWWW again.

"She's staring at me. Right at me," he told his burly reading-buddy (this was a Hiccup-generated title and was kept for private-use. Ralph, already ashamed of his near-illiterate state, didn't like it).

The other boy sighed, not even looking up. "Kid, said this before and saying it again – you need a doctor. Having these kind of 'llucinations is really bad, especially if you expect someone to trust you with a M-16."

"It's not a ' 'llucination', Ralph," Hiccup insisted. He waved his hand to the pathway at the end of the canteen. "She's right -"

Then suddenly, the walkway was no longer occupied.

"Gone." He threw his arms up in frustration. "I give up."

"Great," Ralph said unsympathetically. He jabbed a pen at the page. "Now, how do you read this word?"

Hiccup leaned over from his side of the table, then answered, "It's 'con-ven-ed'."

"Urgh, words," Ralph grunted grimly, as he scribbled this pronunciation down on his book - and by scribbled, I mean that he clenched the pencil in his palm, four fingers wrapped over the shaft, and scrawled gingerly in between the lines.

The big boy from District 11 then lifted the book and with a squint and frown read off the pages, _"'Morgus Mor'du then convened with his brothers in the Capitol Palace. In the presence of the council, he argued his case, pointing out to the flaws of the divided leadership and-"_ clamping his mouth shut as he thought hard, then " _-con-se-quences that had resulted thereof. Using the model of President W. E. Disney as an -"_ the big guy paused as he struggled with the word "- _e-zam-pale_?"

"Ex-am-ple," Hiccup corrected, still looking over his shoulder for the SWWW, just in case she happened to show her face again.

"Ex-am-ple," Ralph repeated while scribbling this on the page. He let out a grunt. " _'as an example, he justified the notion of a singular rule headed by himself. This idea was rejected by his peers at once.'_ These books sure talk weird."

"What do you mean?" his slightly distracted companion said.

"No one in real life talks like that," Ralph complained. "Do they really need to squeeze all those long words in a sentence?"

"It's because they're annoying old pricks. They make convoluted statements in order to make themselves sound smarter than they are."

The appearance of the third person in their company was so unexpected that Hiccup immediately did a double take. When it registered in his mind who this person was, his sensibilities were in no way settled.

"H'allo, lads," the redhead greeted them, her both hands tucked in the pockets of her uniform. " 'See that you've got your heads buried in history. Not a big favorite of mine." Her blue eyes fell onto Hiccup, who was trying not to make it to obvious that he wanted to jump up and run for it - well, run as far as the bruises that his stump would let him run. "Oh, stop looking like you're chicken at the slaughter. I'm not going to hit you."

"That's what I thought the last time," the smaller boy muttered under his breath, inching himself away along the bench.

Ralph frowned hard the girl, crossing his arms, "What you doing here, Merida?"

"Ruining your life, running amuck." She shrugged, then turned to Hiccup, who was still trying to subtly make his escape. "Oh, would you stop that! I'm under medication. See!" She thrust her arm in his face, which made him hurriedly cover his head with his own arms. Upon discovering that a blow had not yet struck him, Hiccup peeked at the wrist stuck out on display. He saw that in addition to the ' _mentally disorientated'_ , she now wore a black band with a red light on it.

"It reminds me when to go to the infirmary to get my medicine," Merida explained to him as she dropped her arm. "There's a nurse there that watches me take it. They also force me to talk to a psychologist every time I'm there. I'm getting better." She eyed the wristband distastefully. "Or so they tell me. They're probably lying."

Hiccup heard Ralph let a long sigh, one that full of exhausted patience and defeated expectations. "Kid, can you promise that you're going to behave?"

"Soldier's honor, Ralph. I'll be a model patient," was her flippant reply as she plopped herself down on the bench. Hiccup carefully edged himself out of her lunging range while mentally plotting escape routes. He took note of where she placed her arms, how much she hunched herself forward and the contours of her countenance, awaiting imminent danger signs.

"What's this one about?" The girl then crooked her head towards the book laid before Ralph. Without waiting for permission, she snatched it from him, earning an indignant cry from the big boy (of course, Ralph was could make any complaint he liked. _He_ was too big for her to beat up.)

Flipping through the pages, Merida let out a scratchy chuckle, one that made the hair on Hiccup's arm stand. "Phhff! You're reading this? At your age? These are the bedtime stories my mum used to tell me."

"It's history." Ralph frowned, folding his arms. He did not like his object of study being derided.

"They're _legends_ ," Merida drawled, with a roll of her eyes. "It's so easy I could tell the whole thing in five minutes." At that moment, she happened to be facing to Hiccup, who postulated informing her that the point of Ralph's reading was not so much history education as learning the words in them, but could not think of diplomatic way of phrasing it. Mistaking his hesitation for scorn, she declared determinedly, "Don't believe me? Fine! I'll show you."

She slid down the bench slightly, reaching out for the chess set that had been left behind by other soldiers who had been playing it earlier on. These fellows had already retired for the night and forgot to claim their belongings, which left the girl free to do what she willed with it.

Merida swept all the pieces of the board, before picking up one of the king pieces and showing it to the two boys. "Once there was a great president who founded Panem. He was a great man called-" she scrunched up her face as she thought "- what was he called again?"

Ralph, taking the opportunity to practice his reading again, flipped the pages of the book. Slowly, he read aloud, "W.E. Disney."

"Walt Elias Disney. Thank you, laddie." Merida beamed at him as she fingered with the King piece. "Now, under his leadership, Panem prospered. Everyone was happy and equal and whatever. But then, oh no." She dropped the King piece, letting it clatter and roll off the table. "President Disney dies. Lucky for us, he had already chosen his successor - pardon me, _successors._ Four of his closest council, sometimes called the 'Four Brothers'."

From the pile of pieces, she picked out the four rooks, standing one black rook first. "The first was Morgus Mor'du the Strong. He controlled the military and security. He was known to be rather tall."

She stood the other black rook on the table. "Robert Callaghan the Wise. He was in charge of scientific development and advancement." A small grin appeared on her face as she added, "Heard that our resident kid genius is quite a fan of his work. "

Merida set one white rook across the two black ones. "Mendelssohn, or as his friends called him, 'Manny' Lunar the Just. He wrote many laws that were supposed to be good, but most of the books holding them have been destroyed after the War, so lucky us."

"And finally, our favorite-" her smile was sardonic as she pressed the last rook onto the table "- Hugo Bernstein Lotso, the... _Compassionate_."

"Lotso? As in President Lotso?" Ralph pulled a face of disbelief as he browsed the book to check this. "And how do you spell 'compassionate', by the way?"

Hiccup took the pencil and wrote the word out for him on one of the page corners procured, while Merida answered wryly, "They say that before the Great War, he was a very different man. Anyway,-" she lay the square board over the four rook pieces, adjusting it such that each piece supported one corner "-these men were supposed to lead the nation now. However, Mor'du the Strong was ambitious. He thought his brothers incompetent and had a vision that his rule - as in his rule _only_ \- would be better. His brothers refused this proposal, so he defied them, taking with him his armies to District 13." She snatched away the black rook, making the board slide and tumble over. "Peace collapsed and war began."

She retrieved the three rooks under the board and set them upright together. "At first, the remaining three brothers tried to work together to maintain the Capitol's hold over the Districts. They had the bulk of the resources, but Mor'du had the latest inventions of war in his possessions – muttations. His men were trained to use them against the forces that the three brothers sent out. True to his name, his armies were strong. In fear of the beasts he had, the Districts 10, 11 and 12 all surrendered themselves to him and swapped sides first." The girl made a grim smile. "That's why they're the poorest Districts now - punishment for inciting betrayal."

"Lotso placed himself in charge of his trio of brothers." She took one of the white rooks from the trio, and stacked it over a black and white rook. "One of his enactments was carrying out defensive research in hopes to find a way to fight the muttations of District 13. Lotso also created the Peacekeepers, white guards that were loyal only to him." She picked white pawns pieces from the pile, placing them in a circle surrounding the trio of rooks.

"He started doing all kinds of things that would hopefully forward his victory against Mor'du - not all of them good. Lunar the Just disagreed with many of these choices, and it was said that it was because of that, Lunar betrayed Lotso and joined Mor'du." Merida removed the white rook from the trio stack over to join the lone rook. "Some said that he intended to usurp Mor'du's position and take over the rebellion."

"That's not in the book," Ralph said, checking the furiously. Hiccup, who had been quiet for now, found himself listening the story with much surprise and interest. He had heard and read the Capitol's version of the tale, but when the redhead told it, it was like hearing a whole new story. Perhaps it was the way she told it – with changes in pace, in volume. Perhaps it was how she seemed almost – well, _almost_ only – normal.

"Possibly my mother's embellishment," Merida added while examining one of the white pawn pieces. "Anyway, Lunar was very popular with the people at the time, so all the remaining Districts followed his suit and rebelled against the Capitol. Lotso snapped. He couldn't take this much defiance. He went a little crazy and had Lunar assassinated. So goodbye, Manny." She knocked away the black rook with her pawn, and threw them both into the pile where the unused pieces lay.

"Later on, conflict between Lotso and Callaghan rose – probably due to some political showdown - that led to Callaghan being sentence to life imprisonment, where he died." This black rook was taken up and thrown in the pile.

"Meanwhile, Mor'du continued his experiment with muttations and eventually began experimenting on himself. In the course of that, he turned himself into a huge bear as strong as ten men. He became the first mutant ever." Both Ralph and Hiccup were staring at her. "What?"

"I definitely never heard of this part," the smaller boy said with a skeptical look, forgetting just that second that he was supposed to be frightened of her.

"How much 'embellishment' did your mum add?" Ralph was turning the pages of the book, frowning. "I may suck at words, but I'm pretty sure that's not written in here."

"He did turn himself into bear," the redhead insisted, shaking her wild curls emphatically. "And then word reached Lotso about what happened, except that they thought Mor'du turned his entire army into scary mutant bears. So Lotso nuked District 13, made sure that Bear Mor'du was killed-" she chucked the last rook back in the pile "-and punished the Districts for rebelling with the Hunger Games. The end. Lotso wins."

Merida eyed the last standing white rook with contempt, before grabbing the chessboard and pummeling it over the piece with great vindictiveness, screeching as she did. She did this for about a full minute or so before she realized that the two lads looking at her peculiarly.

Merida paused, holding up the board mid-air. After a moment of contemplation, she said slowly, "I think I better go." She suddenly turned toward Hiccup, tossing the wooden board at him. "Catch!"

Fortunately, he was on high alert. Hiccup did catch it in time between his two palms, one corner just inches from stabbing his nose. Panting in shock, he watched the girl hop up from the bench and speed away down the common hall, disappearing through the exit.

Ralph let out an exhale and shut his book with a thump. "I better go after her before she does something stupid and goes back to jail."

"O-kay." Though he said nothing of it, Hiccup did think the elder boy fussed over the girl too much. This had not been the first time that Ralph had gone after her during her odd little swings of temper. She didn't seem like she needed the company, and when she sought it, it was only to find an audience for her tantrums. If you asked him, it seemed as Merida might not be trying all that hard to recover from her _'illness'_ – if her strange and dangerous behavior could really be blamed on it.

There must have been something in his expression that said as much, for then Ralph, probably feeling obliged to explain himself further, spoke in a rather awkwardly determined tone, "She was allies with Vanellope. She never really said so, but they were really close. When the kid died, it broke something in her."

Hiccup did think the mentioned name odd, but it was hardly the first time he had heard of it. In his mind, the scene played out in full-color, where the girl from District 5 was fully prepared to take his life until the elder boy intervened. Ralph had used that name then.

"Vane-Vanelle-" giving up on trying to pronounce the name "-she was from your District?" Hiccup ventured a guess. "The girl from your side?"

The board shoulders of his fellow survivor drooped in a way that the younger boy had never expected. Ralph nodded solemnly, his expression full of sorrow. "She was the best friend I'd ever had, but come the Games-" his countenance turned darker, his head hung low "-I should have been there with her - should have protected her. Like your friend protected you."

The 'friend' that Ralph referred to was, Hiccup supposed, Astrid. As much as he'd have to like to point out that his own District mate only switched her protective instincts on under the belief that two of the same District could share a victory, he knew that wouldn't be of any comfort to the other boy. It just showed how well the Capitol could turn them against people they were supposed to care about.

He glanced at the path that the redhead had hastily fled down. He thought of the bruises on collarbone that was supposed to heal in 48.5 hours, left her strong hands. He thought of how he had been shaking like a leaf in her presence, as if she wasn't just as fragile and lost as he.

Yes, the Capitol had messed them up good.

"I didn't look after Vanellope," Ralph went on with regretful longing. "The least I can do is look after _her_." He nodded toward the doorway. "It's, well, it's what the kid would have wanted me to do, I figure."

Hiccup nodded, and his gesture must have been satisfactory, for Ralph then took his leave with more repose. The younger boy tapped his metal foot thoughtfully against the floorboard, feeling a now too familiar sting running up his thigh.

He admitted with a grim smile that Merida wasn't the only struggling with recuperation. He hasn't exactly been the most receptive with recovery advice so far. Perhaps they all needed to admit that they were broken and in desperate need of some physical and emotional glue. Maybe it will come from finding purpose in this strange new environment. Maybe it will be come from each other.

As he rose from the bench to go and find the rest that Baymax had been prescribing him all week, he heard a loud call, "Soldier Haddock!"

He jerked his head towards the source of the voice, nearly tumbling backwards over the bench. At the end of the hall, an imposing figure manifested itself, glaring down at him.

By this time, the extremely painful military training taught him how to straighten himself and salute to his superiors upon command. So with smarting stump, jittery disposition and all, he sprinted before the lieutenant and raised his fingers to his forehead. "Reporting for duty, m'am!"

"At ease, Soldier," was the command he received, to which Hiccup was glad to for. He probably landed a bit too heavily on the bad-foot. Yep, he should probably see the prosthetist again. If the crazy redhead could go to the psychologist, he supposed he could spare some time with a doctor too.

He let his arms falls slack by his body, but kept his posture straight and his head bent slightly in respect. "Thank you, m'am."

The woman gazed down at him, her lip twisted in a cold frown. Inwardly, he ran over all the things he had done today and the day before, trying to figure what offense he could have committed - besides merely existing, that was.

Finally, she said, unsmiling as ever, "I need you to follow me."

Hiccup, as a defier of rules, would have loved to question the order, or perhaps at least bring up the pains in his leg, but District 13 didn't like him much at the moment, so insubordination and smart-mouthing was not a good plan. Having no other choice, he obeyed.

The walk was a sullen, silent one. Reflection time started at 22:00 precisely and ended half-an-hour, also quite precisely, this period was ending soon, most had returned to their compartments and prepared for _22:30 - Lights Out_ , leaving Hiccup quite alone with his superior officer in the corridor. It seemed that however with the Lieutenant still clad in livery, leading him with brisk steps, it might not yet be 'Lights Out' for him (unless it was the kind of 'Lights Out' that involved dying, which would be very, very unfortunate).

It was perhaps a good five minutes of crossing, twisting and turning through corridors that the Lt. Calhourn spoke to him, "Do you know who I am, Soldier Haddock?"

"I do, m'am," he answered. He did know who she was, even without Ralph telling him.

Sergeant Calhourn, as she used to be known, had been most notorious in the Capitol. Hiccup had seen her once or twice in person in his childhood, for she had visited District 2 during her time as a Head Peacekeeper in the Capitol. More than that, he knew the story behind her rise to power in the Capitol. It was said that she had been a simple, low-ranking Peacekeeper guarding the Presidential Palace when she single-handedly intercepted an assassin from taking Lotso's life (sadly for the rest of them, and probably for District 13 now). The President had commended her personally, slapping on her medals and riches. In just one night, Tamora Calhourn had become one of the most powerful people in the Capitol. She had been known move in various social circles and positions as she'd pleased, so it hadn't been all that much a surprise for her to take a role of Head Trainer of the tributes of the 74th Hunger Games. The surprise part was that she had chosen to leave all that opportunity, positions and prosperity for District 13.

What Ralph did tell him was that she had played a vital role in Hiro's plan of getting them out of the Capitol, so in a way, they owed her their lives. All the same, Hiccup found this whole affair quite quizzical and still held quite an air of disbelief about it. Was it a conscience-prick that drove her to the opposition? Or was this some elaborate double-crossing? But he concluded that any suspicions attached to the promoted Sergeant could to be similarly attached to him.

"If you have heard about me from your father, you would know that I'm a person of firm beliefs and radical action," Lt. Calhourn told him in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. "I regard myself with the highest standard and judge anyone under my power in a similar manner. Cross me, and I'll have you put through the worse stretches and crunches you've ever been, till you're punching yourself and crying for your mother and mercy, of which you will receive neither. Do I make myself clear?"

Hiccup found himself rather taken aback at the odd phrasing. "Yes, m'am?"

The soldier matched on smartly while the boy scrambled anxiously after her, trying not to hiss with every step he took.

"What you're about to hear must be heard in confidence," she instructed him omniously. "You will not talk about it with peers, colleagues, platoon-mates, or anyone - even me - without permission. Under severe interrogation, you are not to repeat what you have heard and what has been said to you. Can I have your word on this matter? That even if you're being beaten into a pulp of sludgy red flesh with bits of your brain leaking out, with your entrails being yanked out and your limbs torn from their sockets, that you will uphold this confidence?"

The graphic imagery was not at all appealing, and the queasy sensation building in Hiccup's stomach made him wonder if - whatever this was, was worth that amount of pain.

But Lt. Calhourn was dead serious about, even stopping her march to glare at him.

Hiccup stammered, "Y-y-y-yes, m'am."

She peered at him down her nose, before tapping the open button on one of the doors along the corridor. She jerked her head towards it. "Get in."

Still limping uncertainly, he did as she said, entering the empty meeting room. It was still completely dark.

Then he heard the door shut behind him, closing with an eerie 'boom'.

Oh, gods! They _were_ going to kill him!

He spun around, groping in the dark. He anxiously tugged against the door, but it wouldn't budge. Why, oh, why was he stupid enough to follow the Lieutenant?

Then suddenly, the darkness dissipated. The holographic screens lit up around him, immersing the room in deep ultramarine. A metallic, mechanical voice came from behind him, _"Hello, Hiccup."_

Slowly, the boy turned around. There was no one else in the room, just him. Well, him and the glowing blue holographs screens. The largest screen before him displayed a white circle, and from it, the voice was heard.

 _"Don't be frightened,"_ the robotic voice told him, _"I'm not going to hurt you. Won't you sit down?"_

Trying to still his quaking limbs, the boy hobbled over to the sole chair set in front of the screen, staring up at the white circle in bewilderment. "W-who-" he licked his lips, "-who are you?"

He could almost imagine the white circle to be smiling indulgently at him. _"Well, my identity is a closely-kept secret that I cannot divulge. But if it comforts you in any way, I am known as the Man-in-the-Moon."_

Hiccup absorbed this for a moment, then said, "No, actually. That doesn't comfort me at all. Seriously, who are you?"

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **The song 'Frozen Heart' from Frozen. This is not the first time this song has appeared in this story.**

 **JACK'S BACK!**

 **The heart operation is probably not very realistic, but mutant boys with frozen hearts aren't either. FYI, the District 12 healer that was mentioned is Pabbie (see Chapter 4) and the 'girl' mentioned in during the operation parts is Anna.**

 **Iron Argonite is obviously a fictional substance. Note that it's described as 'Black Sand' and if you want to have some fun, check out the chemical name of Iron Argonite.**

 **Elsa has new gloves now, and a tiara! Fashion by Hiro Hamada - Come On Down!**

 **The history of Panem here is a less pro-Lotso version compared to the one in the Prologue, and it is inspired heavily by the** _ **Brave**_ **short,** _ **Legend of Mor'du,**_ **where the Four Brothers were described to be Strong, Wise, Just and Compassionate. Merida's method of telling it is based on her mother's telling of it in the movie (complete with chessboard).**

 **As a recap, in case you missed it:**

 **Strong: Morgus Mor'du (from** _ **Brave**_ **)**

 **Wise: Robert Callaghan (from** _ **Big Hero 6**_ **)**

 **Just: Mendelssohn 'Manny' Lunar (Manny/Man-in-The-Moon from** _ **ROTG)**_

 **Compassionate: Hugo Bernstein Lotso (Lots-o'-Huggin' Bear/Lotso from** _ **Toy Story 3)**_

 **The Founder of Panem: Walt. E. Disney a.k.a** _ **the**_ **Founder of Disney Animation, which produced the guys who founded both Pixar and Dreamworks. (You have to know this guy at least)**

 **Note that Mor'du mentioned in the history here is not the same muttation bear (Demon Bear) that chased Merida in** _ **The Odds of Five.**_ **I just used 'Mor'du' as the 'Strong' brother because he's an expendable character. After all, he's already dead.**

 **Up Next: The Man-In-The-Moon? Dun-dun-dun!**

* * *

 **A/N: Hello, all! I'm back from vacation. I hope you'd enjoyed this chapter.**

 **skyline10: I'm a sucker to sweet, softer scenes in this story too. Bonnie and Astrid's playtime is such a contrast about lost innocence, so I really love that part. Will there be more of this particular bonding? Maybe, maybe not. Rapunzel teaming up with Pitch is more like Rapunzel enslavement by him, but eh, same diffs. Hope you like the little Hiro and Elsa bonding here, though it's not much.**

 **Recently I've been a bit down with some changes in my life, so my inspiration for writing has been drooping like a daisy in a thunderstorm.** **I would really love some reviews if you could drop them.**

 **Till the next time I update!**

 **Reviews. Ask Questions. Critique.**


	8. Chapter 7: Moving On

The Guardians Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 7: Moving Forward

* * *

 **District 13**

The holographic screen laughed at him. Well, not the screen itself, but the voice behind it. Hiccup couldn't help but feel a little annoyed at least.

"I'm serious," he told the glowing screen. "I really have no idea who you are, Mister…Man-in-the-Moon?" He could barely believe the words that were coming out from his own mouth. Wasn't the Man-in-the-Moon some child's tale or something?

 _"I'm afraid it is impossible for me to reveal who exactly I am to you, Hiccup Haddock,"_ the mechanical voice finally said after a bout of laughter. Despite the filter, the tone was rather warm and almost comforting. _"But perhaps it would be ease your mind a little if I explain to you what I do."_

The scrawny young boy twisted uncertainly in his chair, before giving a slight nod to the white circle on the screen. Some answer was better than none at all.

 _"During your weeks here in District 13, you might have become aware that we are preparing for war. Do you know who we intend to wage war against, Soldier Haddock?"_

"The Capitol, sir." It was never said outright, but it was pretty obvious. Most training sessions dealt with defending themselves against Peacekeepers. All propaganda was fiercely anti-Capitol. To miss it was like missing a bullet training running straight your way while you were tied to the tracks.

 _"Exactly. But District 13 is not alone in the Rebellion movement. It is supported by other members of Panem – rebellion cells that have either started up on their own or have been implanted by our task forces. They may be ordinary citizens in the District, secretly gathering resources and recruiting more members to our cause. They may also be intelligence agents – infiltrators into the Capitol who retrieve vital information or carry out urgent tasks to further the rebellion cause."_ The faceless speaker allowed a pause, before carrying on, _"As the Man-in-the-Moon, or MiM, as most call me, I'm in charge of the rebellion movement outside District 13. Our network works together with the District to further our cause – to overthrow the Capitol and return Panem to the people."_

Hiccup nodded, his eyes widening with every new piece of information presented to him. He had heard stories in his days back in his home district, where the 'rebellion' was spoken about as if it were a plague. To many Peacekeepers, it was _the_ plague, and it needed to stamped out with violence and ferocity. Having it told to him so plainly as if it were nothing more than a breakfast menu was something he took a while to get used to.

 _"No doubt, Soldier Hamada would have recounted his version of your extraction from the Hunger Games by now,"_ MiM went on, crisp and business-like, though with a hint of amusement. _"To clarify things, it was I whom he communicated with in order to arrange the details. My agents were also the ones who went back and forth to cover up the fingerprints of the Rebellion over the events that had occurred in 74th Hunger Games, of which one you have already met."_

It clicked in the boy's mind. "Lieutenant Calhourn is one of your agents."

 _"Yes,"_ the faceless voice confirmed. _"Now she's under the authority of the President of District 13, but she still answers to me on certain matters."_

"Excuse me, sir," Hiccup said, his voice sounding more high-pitched and nasally than usual due to his nervousness. It just struck him that this MiM, whoever he was, was not a person to be trifled with. Running rebellion matters under the very nose of the Capitol? That was a feat both to admire and fear. "What do you want with me?"

 _"I wanted a chance to talk to you face to face – or face to voice, perhaps more accurately."_ There seemed to be a light-hearted note in MiM's voice, before becoming serious again. _"The President of District 13 had disagreed with conducting the extraction process, with good reason, and I was the one who vetoed his decision. Thus, the entirety of the extraction is my responsibility and that includes those who were extracted – all five of you."_

The boy puzzled over this. "So … this is a normal thing? You've talked to all the others? Ralph? Hiro?"

 _"For security reasons, I've only ever talked to Hiro out of your group of friends, and then it was only for matters concerning the extraction."_ Hiccup grimaced at the word 'friends' – it was not how he would describe his relationship with the District 5 girl. _"As Calhourn should have explained to you, this entire exchange must remain strictly confidential. Capitol spies are everywhere – even in District 13."_ He added this in response to the boy's surprised expression, _"Don't be shocked. The Capitol is not made of fools. They know that we're readying ourselves. It's a matter of when and how we intend to strike them."_

His voice shook, but he could not keep himself from asking, "Do you think I'm a spy, sir?"

 _"No. For now."_

While he didn't want to appear too forward, Hiccup could not help asking, "What do you mean by that?"

 _"All those born in Panem are fed Capitol propaganda from young, but District 2 takes to it the most enthusiastically. Like it or not, it was your home district. You were brought up according to their ways and you still have ties there."_ Hiccup felt his muscles tense. Yep, this was it. This was his eulogy. He was deader as a doornail. _"Some think we should have let you die in the Arena. Almost all here think it's only a matter of time before you turn on us."_

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," the boy couldn't help muttering bitterly.

 _"I would like to prevent that outcome. Permanently, if possible."_

Oh, here it was, the death sentence. This was it. Goodbye, world. Goodbye, dowdy life. To be fair, life wasn't that great. His stump ached a lot and he couldn't really walk properly. He wasn't going to ever see his dad again (not that his dad would care that much… right?), Toothless was nowhere to be found. It wasn't as if he had much to live for.

 _"That's why I hope to secure your loyalty to our cause."_

Well, his prosthetic would go back to the prosthetist. His books would go to Ralph. Hiro could have his sketches if he wanted and _…wait, what did he just say?_

"Secure my loyalty, sir?" the boy repeated, baffled.

 _"Hiccup Haddock, do you hate the Capitol?"_

This question caught him off guard. "What?"

 _"It was the Capitol that took you from your home – away from your family and friends. It was the Capitol that placed you in the Games, throwing your life away for sport."_ The mechanical voice rose in crescendo, hard and stern." _It was the Capitol that forced you to go against everything you really believe in, to have your innocence ripped away from you. Let me ask you again do you hate the Capitol?"_

"I-I-I-" He knew he had always taken the words of Capitol with a pinch of salt, as he did with all the Peacekeeping propaganda. But had he ever hated them?

Then he remembered the horror that sank into him when he heard his name called during the Reaping. He remembered the dread he felt on each training night, where he counted down the days to the imminent doom. He remembered holding the dying District 3 girl in his arms, feeling so helpless and lost in the bloodshed. He remembered befriending Toothless, and realizing the cruelty that the Capitol had inflicted on him as well. He remembered betraying allies. He remembered facing off enemies that weren't really enemies, but puppets for the Capitol's amusement. He guiltily remembered secretly hoping for the death of children barely his age, just so that he might stand a chance of winning.

He remembered what it was like to have a left foot.

This time, without wavering, Hiccup said to the white circle image on the holographic screen, "With all my heart, sir."

 _"Good, because nothing less than your whole heart will be expected from you,"_ was MiM's grave reply. _"The rebellion is only as strong as its weakest link, Hiccup. You are especially susceptible to turning on us due to your background. So every time you feel that temptation to do so, remember what the Capitol did to you. If the rebellion succeeds, all the children who died, the sufferings that you and your peers had undergone – they will all be worth it. There will be a new Panem. A free Panem."_

 _"However,-"_ the volume dropped several decibels, but Hiccup could still hear every word clearly _"-if you betray us, if you dare give in in a moment of weakness, understand this: you would not only be betraying the rebellion. You would not only be betraying District 13. You would not only be betraying peers and comrades who have trusted you. You would have betrayed the future generations of children – our children. I will hold you personally responsible for every child that dies again in those Games. Is that clear?"_

The tone was so chilling, so harsh, that Hiccup couldn't help but shudder. He couldn't even speak, so he just nodded. He didn't dare look up at the image on the holographic screen.

 _"I'm glad that we've reached an agreement,"_ MiM said with a sigh of relief. The severity in the tone had relaxed. _"Because I do want to trust you, Hiccup Haddock."_ That made the boy lift his head up. _"From what I have observed, you have compassion, ingenuity and courage. These are traits that I prize highly. I saw these too in Tadashi Hamada, which is why I chose him for the mission."_

Hiccup caught on to the mentioned name. "That's Hiro's brother, isn't it? The one who died?" He winced inwardly after he said it. 'Died' was such a callous word, but 'passed away' made it sound too natural and 'murdered', while true, sounded too severe.

Fortunately, the MiM did not pick at him for his language. _"Yes, it was him."_ It seemed almost as if the leader of rebels sounded regretful, but he reverted back to his brisk manner. _"The night is no longer young. You must be tired. Go and have some rest."_ It might have been Hiccup's imagination, but he could swear that he heard the faceless voice sound … benevolent? _"Good night, Hiccup, and sleep well."_

With that, the holographic screen fizzled off and the darkness returned. At the very same time, the door of the meeting room zipped open. Hiccup wobbled back to his feet – ahem, foot and prosthetic – and took a moment to compose himself. Stepping back to the lights of the corridor, he could not help but feel that the entire experience was frightening surreal. If he didn't see Lt. Calhourn standing by the door, tapping her foot impatiently, he might have dismissed the whole thing as a dream.

"Well?" his superior asked him with folded arms. "How did it go?"

As he opened his mouth, Hiccup remembered what she had told him before he had entered the room. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, m'am."

There was the slightest, tiniest hint of a smile on the Lieutenant's greyed countenance. "Very good, Soldier Haddock."

He was dismissed to return to his compartment after that, and he was shocked to find that it was already midnight. The conversation that he had with MiM – whose existence he could barely believe (don't judge, how many faceless, secret leaders have you met today?) – had taken longer than he had expected. He hadn't even remembered to undo his prosthetic before tumbling into bed, which was quite unwise. His bruised skin needed to breathe and heal, after being buried and brushed against the brace all the day. By the time he woke up, rubbing his eyes and cracking his back, he needed the brace to stay clamped to his stump if he was going to be able to walk at all.

The day was started quite unremarkably, with breakfast being unexciting and tasteless. Ralph wasn't present as he was called to serve early morning duty, which meant that he would be eating at another shift. Merida was thankfully nowhere to be seen. Though he no longer hardened his heart towards her, Hiccup was still wary – he didn't want to lose another appendage.

Things started getting weird when he realized, according to the newly-updated schedule printed on his hand, he wasn't supposed to report to his usual barracks for training next. He was to go the Special Defense Centre.

The first time he had tried going into the Special Defense Centre, his way was barred. Two guards who had been standing at the lift landing literally pointed their firearms at him, then told him to get back into the lift and get out. It was one of those places that could only be accessed by people with special permission, and at that time, he was not one of those people. Now, when he came forward, favoring his right leg as he hobbled over to the guards, they checked the schedule printed on his arm and allowed him to enter without a word of fuss. Hiccup passed through the glass doors that were the entrance, took a swerve around the bend and his breath was stolen from him.

The Special Defense Centre was like an engineering paradise. Everywhere, there were scientists running around with papers, carrying out experiments and punching in data with enthusiasm and even excitement. He saw some large machines, small automatons and various strange devices that he could barely recognize.

"Pretty cool, huh?"

Hiccup whirled around to face the owner of the voice, only finding him when he dipped his head down slightly. "Hiro."

"Hey, haven't seen you for a bit." There was an apologetic note in the other's boy voice as he proffered his hand.

Eager to show that there were no hard feelings, Hiccup took the hand and shook it. It took all of his strength to resist pulling away and gaping at the District 3-born genius, for Hiro's appearance had so much since their last encounter. He had certainly lost weight, by how much skinnier he seemed compared to the larger seat on his motorized chair. Hiccup could feel almost all the bones in the other boy's grip. He seemed so much paler too, and there were too many circles drawn under his eyes. Hiccup also noticed now that the boy seemed to be leaning constantly against the chair, not sitting upright as he had used to. The unused legs that dangled from the lower half of the chair were covered with a blanket, but Hiccup wondered if they would too be bony and gaunt, like the rest of the boy.

"C'mon," Hiro beckoned him, jerking his head towards one of the walkways. "We've got places to be, and I think you'll like where we're going." He still sounded like the same, enthused robotics prodigy that he had met before the Games, but Hiccup could not help but wonder if the other boy was trying a little too hard to sound normal.

Hiro led him through a maze of laboratories, which either consisted scientists running tests on robotic prototypes or conducting experiments with unknown substances, or …staring at a holographic screen? Hiccup wasn't sure how that was considered productive by defense technology standards, but to be fair, he knew very little about this place.

"Over here, Hiccup." Hiro had led them both to a hall opening, which was guarded by not two, but six guards all standing at attention. Hiccup, with his metal leg, was not able to travel as fast as Hiro on his motorized chair, so he only managed to spare a look at the markings over the entrance after he caught up. For the second time that day, his breath was stolen from him.

The hall was marked MUTTATIONS RESEARCH & STUDY.

Even as they went through the security checks, Hiccup could not keep his jaw from hanging open. A muttation research centre? That actually made sense. Like in the story that Merida told, District 13 had found its strength through these biological weapons; born from tubes and nurtured into savage killing machines. If there ever were a place that District 13 would have its 'secret weapons', it would be here. It then occurred to him that the numbers of those given access to this area could not be large, so why was he, suspected spy for the enemy who could compromise their secret advantage, be allowed here?

"This way," he heard Hiro call to him. The boy had been transferred to a plastic chair after they had gone through the security scans. Watching how much effort it took for him to roll the chair forward, even if only by a few inches, Hiccup offered to push him. Hiro rejected it kindly, insistently wheeling himself forward.

Unlike the outside, which had been a clamor of machines whirring and people talking, the interior of this research department was almost completely silent. There were no see-in glass panels for people on the outside to watch experiments, only code-locked doors that probably led to private labs. There were occasional officers and lab techs that passed them by, but the words exchanged were far too few to friendly and there was an aura of solemnity over everyone who here, as if they were priests tending to a sacred altar.

"Don't know if you still remember the Snow Queen, but that's where she stays." Hiccup followed Hiro's finger to the rather inconspicuous grey door that read, 'CAUTION: THERMOSTATIC CHAMBER. APPLY REQUIRED SAFETY MEASURES.' "If you're free sometime, you should visit her. She's probably tired of seeing me all the time." The black-haired boy let out a little laugh, before quickly hissing behind his hand, "Don't tell her I called that. She doesn't like the nickname that much."

This door was not their stop, however, so they moved on down the imposing grey tube that was the walkway. Sometimes Hiccup noticed that passerbys would stop to stare at him coldly, but they said nothing to him or Hiro, nor did they do anything to prevent them from going about their way. The mistrust was present still, but it was no hindrance.

They finally arrived at their destination, which was again one of the unremarkable-looking doors that flanked the passage. It was labelled plainly as '15-DG' and held a sign warning those who entered to wear the appropriate safety gear.

"It takes only one person at a time," Hiro told him. The boy nodded to the control panel, which held a scan. "You go first."

It took Hiccup a moment to adjust his arm under the scanning contraption, but once he did it, the scanner read his tattooed schedule and the door zipped open. A box-like elevator just narrow enough for one person to fit comfortably was revealed. He stepped in per Hiro's instruction and was about to ask on what to do next when the door swung violently to a close. The box then began to move, not down or up, but sideways and he quickly grabbed the handrail to steady himself. When he did, he realized that the walls of the elevator were actually transparent, which allowed him to watch in perfect clarity as he travelled away from the door that he had entered in and began moving through dimly-lit tunnel. It only when he gazed down to check that his prosthetic brace that he noticed the metal track that the 'elevator' was travelling on.

After a few seconds of darkness and one of two flickering lights, a flood of light suddenly rushed over him, clawing into his eyes like talons. He quickly shaded them with his arms, turning his head away as he allowed his pupils to adjust. Warily, his eyelids parted again.

Third time was the charm, for this sight put everything else in his life to shame.

He was in a cavern of some kind – a large one, built with ice and stones and vines that had grown to gigantic over the years that it had crawled the surfaces. He could hear water splashing from somewhere below him and lush greenery covered the hard rock platforms and stalagmites. He couldn't really see where the light-source was, for it felt as if the interior of the entire cavern was glowing.

But none of these compared to the _dragons_.

Winged creatures of various shapes and sizes flapped over and under his transport vehicle, flying in loops around the stone formation of the vast cavern. Gorgeous wings of iridescent shades gleamed in the light as the reptiles soared. Caws and cries were heard, but they did not sound distressed.

Hiccup could barely keep his head straight as he tried to name them based on what he remembered from the Muttation Manual - the book of muttations that had been in his possession during the Games. Was that Monstrous Nightmare? No, too small, though features-wise it looked like one. That one was with four heads – could it be a Snaptrapper? It looked move fearsome in real life than it did in the drawings. Oh! That one was definitely boulder-class, but it was too large to be a Gronkle. He wondered how closely they were related.

He couldn't believe it. He was surrounded by _dragons_. Wild, free flying _dragons_. He had been so amazed by the creatures that he had never considered the possibility of them creatures attacking his transport vehicle, and this thought did not occur to him until he had arrived on the landing.

The elevator carriage left him in a glass laboratory, decorated with the usual computers and holo-screens, except with giant glass windows that allowed him to look out into the paradise of cavern at the dragons around him. He hardly noticed the door of the elevator close behind him after stepping out, before running back up the track. He was too busy staring at the flying reptiles; some in the distance, flying in circles. Others were set on the stone platforms, either resting or wrestling playfully with one another. He watched the beasts of different species living peacefully with one another, not like the battling creatures he had seen in the Arena. There seemed to be no strain in their movements, nor anxiety in their manner, for they felt no danger here. This was not a prison, but a home.

A home which he was apparently invading.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Hiccup jerked sharply around, startled to hear a human voice when seemed surrounded only by dragons. When he laid his eyes on the armored figure, he wondered if what he heard was indeed human.

By the way it hunched forward and bent its knees, the figure before him seemed bear a feral quality. When it approached him, its gait was crooked, yet graceful. Its movements were rough, yet balanced. It donned a curious blue mask over its head, with two tusks sticking out from under the chin and four horns curving up from the forehead. Shoulder-pads, chest-plate and armguards were all-sewn together from a hard, rusted material that looked like painted dragon scales. The figure also wielded a weapon, or at least Hiccup thought it was a weapon. It was a long staff with a hook on each end. The hooks were blunted, but they looked heavy, as if they were meant for bludgeoning rather than piercing.

One of those hooks was pointed at his face right now. Almost automatically, Hiccup raised his hands up in surrender."It's on my schedule!" He used his right arm to point to his left. "Not my idea! I swear!"

The figure then lowered its weapon, to which Hiccup sighed in relief to. But then he heard the hoarse voice behind the mask say, "Hiccup?"

The boy blinked in surprise, but then remembered that his name was actually printed on the label of his uniform. Of course, that's how the figure knew. He reckoned that whoever this was probably his superior, so he straightened himself up for a salute. "Hiccup Haddock, reporting for duty, sir-"

The figure drew itself back and removed its heavy mask. Then the auburn-haired boy realized his error.

"-erm, I mean, M'am. Definitely, m'am."

The woman's face was thin and slender – a little gaunt, perhaps from her age. Her hair, which was a rather plain shade of brown, was tied neatly to the back of her head. Her eyes were unremarkable blend of green and grey, crafted too in a shape that was not the most imposing. Her lips were thin, as if from years of pressing themselves together in self-imposed silence. If it wasn't the impressiveness her armor, Hiccup would have thought her as a rather mousy, meek-looking person.

She stared at him wordlessly for a few seconds, straightening herself up as she did. He, not knowing quite what to do, stared back. It took a few more seconds to click, but he realized that he knew her.

"You," he gasped, involuntarily raising a finger towards her. "You're the SWWW! You're not a hallucination!"

The woman blinked at him, drawing herself and her quarterstaff back in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"You were the strange woman who I've kept seeing around the District!" he exclaimed, feeling almost dizzy by his own revelation. "You're always there watching me from the corners. Yes, I did see you. You were in the canteen, in the hospital, sometimes even in military class! You're real!" He let out a shocked chuckle to himself. "Well, that marks insanity off the list. For now."

"So … you've noticed to me," the woman murmured in a rather uncertain tone, not looking at him in the eye. Both her hands went to grasp the staff in her hand and she held it against the ground, as if steadying herself. "I-I-I see."

Now that she, the 'Strange-woman-who-watches, was here standing before him in the flesh, he could not help but inquire, "What were you doing there? Did you want to talk to me? Were you testing something out?" He frowned a bit tightly. "Are you one of those people whose supposed to stalk me and make sure I don't sell Thirteen's secrets to the Capitol?"

"What? Goodness, no!" the woman in the dragon-armor answered that with such vehemence that Hiccup took a step back. She then noted his reaction and quickly composed herself, trying to express in a kinder tone, "Well, ah-ah-ah-I was just trying – I supposed I really wanted – what I meant to say is that-"

"I see you've met the Professor, Hiccup." The uneasy dialogue was cut short when the travelling carriage brought in the boy on the wheelchair. Hiro rolled himself down the ramp of the 'elevator', into the laboratory. There was a grin on his face as he gazed at the woman, then at the other boy.

The latter peered at the woman more closely. "I didn't know she was a professor."

"Oh, no name-intros yet? Okay." Hiro sucked in a breath, then gestured from the woman to the boy. "Professor Vogstein, Hiccup Haddock." He did the same thing in reverse order. "Hiccup Haddock, Profesor Vogstein."

"You can just call me … Valka," the woman said with a note of hesitation as she held a hand for him to shake.

As Hiccup reached out to shake it, he noticed how her armbands had spikes adorned on its sides, adding a measure of ferocity to herself, ferocity that she herself did not really possess. "Then just call me Hiccup then, m'am – I mean, Valka."

The woman smiled a little sadly at him. He wondered if the way he addressed her was not actually the way that she wanted to be addressed.

The District 3 genius decided that now was a good time to elaborate on his introduction. "Prof. V is in charge for all things dragon here in District 13. Species, wingspan, fire-power – she's the top man – sorry, _woman_ \- here. Since Hiccup-" he thumbed the boy playfully "-seems to have some affinity with dragons too, he's been allocated to work here. Sorry, man-" swerving his wheelchair around to be able to face Hiccup better "-but you've been let off military training. From now on, your focus is dragon training. I know this is obviously a big loss to you, so try not to cry yourself to sleep about it."

It took a while for it to really hit him. "Train … dragons?"

Hiro was grinning away like a bobcat, and he nodded.

"And no more military training?"

"I think they insisted on you having fitness training and self-defense classes, but other than that, you're off the hook for most part."

Hiccup had to pinch himself to make sure that. He stared out of the glass windows, to vastness that was this dragons' haven – haven which was soon to be shared with him.

"And that's not all. Prof. V?" The boy in the chair nodded meaningfully to the professor. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Hiro." Despite his first impressions of her, Hiccup realized that her plain features lit up with life when she smiled, especially if she smiled as she did now, with excitement dancing in her eyes. Swerving herself hurriedly, almost bouncing her feet, she waved a hand toward to Hiccup, beckoning in silent yet almost mysterious manner.

Hiccup could not help be both baffled and intrigued as he followed the woman in the strange armor. The passageways that she led them through were tunneled through cavern, with more underground cubicles containing study quarters and research labs. As they passed these by, Hiccup realized that other the two of them visitors, the professor Valka Vogstein was quite alone here in this part of the research centre. Were there not enough willing scientists on the field? Or were the rest just on break right now?

"Over here." Valka stopped them by a door labelled 'VETERINARY'. She was about to place her hand over the keypad when she paused. She then looked over her shoulder towards Hiccup in a rather apologetic manner. "Just to let you know, I usually don't kept the dragons confined in such a closed spaces. But he was so upset that I feared that he would hurt himself." Her face bore a downcast expression, before brightening again. "But don't worry, now that you're here, all will be well again."

Hiccup was about to ask who 'he' was, but when the door slid open, he didn't need a spoken answer. He'd know that dragon anywhere.

He hadn't noticed how Valka had subtly stepped away from the opening so that he could walk into the veterinary first. He hadn't known how Hiro craned his neck forward from his chair, trying to get a better view of the going-ons. His eyes were fixed on the Night Fury curled up on the stone platform, gazing out morosely out of the glass-panes windows. He noted how the scale-lined flaps by the round head had perked up upon the sliding of the door, yet it had only bothered to turn his head around after he had stepped in.

"Toothless?"

Black lids drew themselves back as green eyes turned towards him. He watched as the reptile slowly rose, first by its hinds legs as it slipped itself off the platform, crawling cautiously towards him. Toothless cocked his head to the side a little at first, considering him.

Had he forgotten? Hiccup shuddered at the thought, a pit forming in his stomach.

Slowly, the boy went forward, bending himself down a little more with each step he took. "Hey, bud, remember me?"

The creature adjusted its gaze on him, daring a blink. Hiccup heard a low croon – a sad, questioning croon. He watched the dragon inch closer, sniffing pointedly, stopping right before the boy. Keeping a distance between the two of them, the dragon rose on its front legs, such that its stout was at Hiccup's height.

Not sure if he should look yet not daring not to, Hiccup lifted his palm towards the dragon, but not touching.

The Night Fury, without a cue or hesitation, shut it eyes and rested its snout in the hands of his boy. It was then Hiccup felt a renewal of that bond that formed in the cusp of the Arena – a bond between what should have been predator and prey.

He was once again with his dragon, and Toothless was once again with his boy.

Hiccup was not quite prepared for the incoming attack, but he did not really mind it that much. Immediately after drawing its head back, the Night Fury had pounced on him, literally knocking him to the ground while grinning down at him a _really big_ gummy smile. The overjoyed reptile then proceeded to express its elation and affection through the lavishing of saliva over his boy.

"Urgh, Toothless! No – hahaha, NO! Stop!" The boy tried to push the dragon away, but his puny arms were no match to strength of the beast, who insistently licked every inch of his faces, warbling its happiness. Eventually, Hiccup surrendered and allowed himself and his uniform to be drenched in dragon spit. Why did it matter? They were together again.

Then suddenly, the dragon paused, its eyes suddenly narrowing. It drew itself back, which rather alarmed. Hiccup quickly sat himself upright, ignoring the smarting bruises that had been inflicted on his back during his fall. "Toothless?"

The reptile turned its gaze toward his metal leg, nudging it curiously, then sniffing it. The Night Fury then drew its snout away from the stump and turned his eyes back to his human, seeming rather sorrowful.

Hiccup merely shook his head. "It's okay, bud. I mean, it hurts now and then, but it's-" he ran his fingers down the crown of the beast's head "-it's okay. I've got you now, and you've got me."

The boy shifted himself forward, albeit a little awkwardly, and then he wrapped his dragon-drool covered arms around the scaly neck. The stench of raw fish and rubber were oddly comforting, and the warm vibrations he felt whilst clinging to the scales of his dragon brought a peace to his heart. He felt the dragon shift slightly as black wings were unfolded to be wrapped around himself; an imitation of his actions.

For the first time in District 13, Hiccup really felt at home.

* * *

Valka had the doors of the veterinary closed after it was determined that the Night Fury and his boy were fine. The two deserved to spend some time together after being kept apart this long. She understood the depth of bonds between a dragon and its chosen rider, for she had experienced it herself.

"Well, I consider that quite a success," she heard the boy from the wheelchair sigh in satisfaction. She turned to Hiro, who grinning happily, though tiredly at her.

She folded her arms, peering at him with amusement. "Are you the orchestrator of all this?"

The black-haired boy made a noncommital shrug, winking at her. "I may or may not have pulled some strings."

"I didn't think the President would ever allow such a thing," Valka exclaimed, glancing at the door of the veterinary. "He has strong prejudices. He's also very picky about the people who deal with muttations, especially the dragons. After all, dragons are our strongest _advantage_ -" she used the word in a halting manner, barely able to hide her own disgust "-against the Capitol."

"It wasn't the President."

Valka looked at him in surprise, before it clicked. "Oh."

Hiro nodded, bearing a slightly rueful expression. "Yep."

She had to admit that she found this piece of news a little disconcerting. "Well, I can't say I think that our dear Mr. President would take this very well."

"Probably not." Hiro shrugged again, pulling a face. "But, eh, that's politics. Let them deal with it. We just do what we do best." The boy gave a small yawn, then glanced up at clock on the wall of the lab. "Well, I best be off. I've got work to do."

"Yes. Of course." Valka nodded.

That was taken the parting 'see-you-later', so Hiro spun his chair around and began rolling himself back to the entrance of the research centre. Before he rolled himself out of this passageway, she found a panging in heart that made her call out to him, "Hiro?"

The young genius twisted his head back to her. "Yes, Prof?"

She wanted to thank him, but then checked herself. It wouldn't make sense for her to thank him – not if he didn't want she was thanking him for. "What you did today was a good thing."

She just barely noticed it, but she saw how Hiro dropped his head and slumped himself forward. It was then that she realized how the young boy, who had just taken refuge in this District a mere six months ago, suddenly seemed so fragile and broken. His whisper could barely be heard. "It's the least I could do."

As he disappeared around the corner, Valka's eyes turned back to the door of the veterinary, then to the clock on the wall. In five minutes, she would have to pull him out. They had work to do and District 13 had no skivers. He would be happy to work, anyway, and she would let the dragon stay by his side as much as possible.

All the same, when the broken words of her black-haired collegue rang in her mind, she also remembered how young these boys were and worn they had been from the Games. They both deserved comfort and rest, but District 13 could not and would not offer it to them. District 13 needed soldiers and workers, not boys.

It served to confirm what she had known all along – District 13 was no place for children.

* * *

 **Capitol Undergrounds**

 **Butterfly Room**

His name was Jack Frost.

How did he know that?

Because the man in black robes told him so.

The man in the black robes also had him chained up to a long, metal chair, which would send painful – no, agonizing - burns through him, making him feel as if he was being ripped apart, then joined back together, only to ripped apart once again. He had never known such pain before, yet he could not help but anticipate each shock they sent through him. It was unpleasant, yes, but it also made him feel alive. He could feel his entire being, from the tip of his fingers to the hair-ends on his neck. He could feel air rushing into his lungs and his heart beating behind his bruised chest. After his body had been asleep so long, movement and feeling of any kind was gift to be taken with open palms.

Well, mostly

There were all these people in white coats who surrounded him. They took orders from the man in the dark robes. They often had their heads buried in study pads and blue screens, with faces that never seemed to smile or frown, forever frozen in a cold impassivity.

Sometimes after hours of wrangling, they'd leave him alone in a dark room. He liked those times, when they let him be. He would reach out to the walls and start painting them with frost, letting the fern-like patterns spread themselves across the room. He would try to making new and different things too, like little snowstorms between his hands and blowing life into the shapes he carved on the walls. He crafted snowflakes and flung them up in the air, watching as they pelted down from the ceiling over his head. These little moments gave him reprieve in between the times that they barked questions at him and the times that they plugged him to the wires for another burn treatment.

They asked questions. A lot of questions. The first few times his mind could not put together the words that fell from his mouth. The next few times when he did understand them, he did not know the answer. Some words sounded familiar to him, but he had no idea what they were talking about.

 _"How old are you?"_

 _"Where were you born?"_

 _"What is your name?"_

He didn't know the answer to all these, even the last one. It was only then that the black-robed man told him his name.

After this particular interrogation, he had gone back to his room – his prison, to be more accurate. He had traced his name into the snow of the wall, made sure that he got the spelling right, then breathed over it until it hardened into crystal. He did not want to forget his name so soon after learning it.

Some days, they would not tie him to the metal burn machine but sit him down in front of a small plastic chair. They strapped him to a small device that measured his heart rate – to check for lies, he found out later - and showed him images from a holographic screen. They would ask him if he could name them.

A big glowing blob. "Sun?"

A face. "A person?"

"Can you name the person?"

He squinted harder at the image, then shook his head.

Next image. A tall, green structure. "That's a tree."

Next image. A body of water. "Lake."

Dark brown grains of solid. "Dirt."

A face of a woman with dark brown hair. He shook his head.

A vast blueness peppered with clouds. "Sky."

A face of a young girl with dark brown hair. She looked kind of like the woman they had shown him earlier. He shook his head.

A warm-colored shape. "Bread."

Another face. "Nope."

A type of livestock. "Sheep."

Another face. "Nope."

They went on showing him various images, some people, some of places, some of objects. He could recognized most of the third, half of the second and none of the first. It then occurred to his examiners that he had knew very little people. To make sure, the unexcitable people in white coats had shown him dozens more faces of various people.

"No. No. No. No. No. No. N-"

He broke himself off suddenly, leaning himself forward as he examined the image. It depicted a young woman with white-gold hair, fair skin and dark red lips. Other than being very beautiful, she would have blended perfectly into the swarm of other faces had he seen her before. At least, he thought that he had seen her before.

"Who is it?" he heard his interrogators demand grimly. He felt a hard hand grab him firmly by the hair, making him wince as his head was forced towards the holographic image.

"I don't know," he hissed, trying to bury the anger in his voice. Wherever he got angry with his interrogators, they would punish him by putting him back on the metal chair and burning him again with the frantic fire. The grip on his head tightened, so he did reveal a snippet of a fact that he knew. He didn't know how he knew it, but perhaps it was from his dreams. He did have rather strange dreams from time to time."All I remember is that she's called the Snow Queen."

He felt his head being freed as his interrogators glanced at one another. Then one of them asked him, "Is there anything else you can tell us about her?"

He didn't actually know anything more, but when he involuntarily glanced down at his own hands – the hands that could do such wonders with ice and snow. And then it struck him that these gifts that he had were not exactly his own.

There were rough sketches in his mind, fragmented pieces of memory that he could not fit together. He remembered being stabbed as well as kissed; killed as well as revived. He remembered pangs of affection as well as pangs of anxiety. He remembered wonder and awe mixed with betrayal and gloom. And somehow, all this was linked to her.

His hands ran over the fabric of his gown, idly tracing over the black scar over his heart. Ever since he had woken up in this strange, foreign blue place that people called the Undergrounds, he had felt the scar throbbing and burning him on the inside, like a fire he couldn't snuff out it. Beneath that burning … well, he couldn't feel his heart at all. He wondered if he had ever could.

He turned his eyes upwards, towards the white strands dancing along the edge of his forehead. "I think," he murmured, so softly that he was almost talking to himself. "I think she froze my heart."

* * *

 **District 10**

Abigail Overland, or better known as Mrs. Jackson Snr. Overland, was becoming quite impatient.

"Emma!" she called once again, flinging open the bedroom door, letting her eyes run over the floorboards. The bed was neatly made, as it had been the last time she checked it. The drawers were all closed and the wardrobe was untouched. Letting a heavy exhale, she headed over to the kitchen again, checking under the table and around the shelves just in case. Her daughter was too old to be crawling around her knees or hiding in cupboards anymore, but at this point, Mrs. Overland wasn't sure what the girl would or wouldn't do anymore.

It had been going on since the night Emma insisted that a fairy had saved her from drowning in a lake. A fairy! Of all things! As if she had been a character of some child's tale, where magic was as real as dirt and godmothers blessed good children. Mrs. Overland had been patient then, because Emma had promptly fallen ill after the incident, running a high fever for over two weeks. The expenditure on medication wouldn't have been possible if their income was made by her earnings alone. Fortunately, the money that Aster Bunnymund had given to her – money earned by her son during the Games – she had been able to foot the bill. She had been so thankful to see Emma out of bed again that she let the matter go. She had not been prepared to lose both her children, and certainly not within a year of each other.

But health had given Emma a new disease – wanderlust. The girl was always flying to strange places nowadays, no longer doing her chores or going to school, but heading into the forests and staying there till the brink of sunset. She said that she had been speaking to the robins and the crows. Mrs. Overland, guessing then that the girl had been merely daydreaming and had forgotten her duties, had sarcastically inquired what she talked to the birds about. Emma, having thought the questions was sincere, had answered then, "Why, whether they've seen Jack around!"

It was just a coping mechanism, Mrs. Overland told herself over and over. She herself had experienced great loss when her own family had died at the hands of the Capitol. She was just a girl then too and had her own erratic ways of expressing her grief at the time. Emma was in a phase, and the phase would pass.

Except that it didn't seem that Emma wanted to let it pass. With each day, the flights of fancy grew stronger. The girl started first with still insisting that the fairy lady existed, then went on to talk about her other encounters with the fairy lady, and then she would talk about these pictures she saw in the air. Mrs. Overland had tried to handle these with great composure, carefully dissecting each fantasy and logically explaining why it couldn't be. But Emma was stubborn. She spoke of a horrid snowman that lived by the lake, who was thankfully melted away now. She often stayed up late enough in the night to watch the moon rising, so that she could talk to it. She refused to join her in visit to the grave of her brother, for in her mind, her brother was not _there_.

That was not the only problem. Tension in the District was growing. Mrs. Overland's job as a laundry maid kept her away from the pens and coops, but she heard the gossips in the market. She heard the grumbles in the streets. People had always been unhappy under the rule of the Capitol, but angry? That was an emotion too costly to express. Yet, more and more dared to express it now. Something about the 74th Hunger Games had changed the way people. Now when the foreman bellowed out orders to work harder or longer, resentment brewed. Random abuse spewed by Peacekeepers, which was deemed as commonplace and even merciful in the past, was now the subject of scorn and deep-seated dissatisfaction. Unwarranted pillaging, burning and destruction of property, including lives, were eyed with hardened jaws and clenched fists.

The Capitol was not blind to the changes in its people. Curfews were tighter than ever. Surveillance patrols were increased. Random abuse and unwarranted attacks were now made public spectacles. The burden of labor was increased threefold. Mrs. Overland found herself rinsing out blood from the clothes of her customers more often than she liked.

Though she held no love for the Capitol, she did not allow herself to listen to the whispers of a new tomorrow. To her, it was as much a fantasy as the tall tales that Emma told herself.

"Emma Overland! If you do not come here right this second-" When Mrs. Overland flung open the front door, she realized that heard the sound of weeping. Stepping outside, she glanced around, before following the sound into the garden.

Before her son's death, they did not have a garden. They couldn't afford to. With Jack's sponsorship money with them now though, they could afford to be a little more extravagant, though not too much or the Peacekeepers would come checking up on them. So Mrs. Overland had invested in flower bulbs and stalks, and these she planted around the cottage upon winter's departure. When she was younger, she had been very fond of gardening, with her own father often commending her green-thumb. She had certainly not lost her edge, it seemed, by the lilies and convulouses that bloomed in patches around their wood cottage. Being fond of variety, she had grown numerous breeds around, from hyacinths all the way to snowdrops. Emma had not shown much interest in the gardens before, though, so Mrs. Overland was surprised to find her daughter there, and even more to see her daughter sitting in the middle of the wash of flowers, rubbing her eyes.

Her anger towards the girl melted as she ran towards her. "Emma?"

Her daughter lifted her tear-streaked face from her own lap, sniffing morosely. Mrs. Overland sighed as she kneeled herself down to where the girl was, wiping the tumbling the tears from her the red cheeks.

"What's wrong, dear?" she asked gently, brushing back the tear-soaked locks from her daughter's face,

The girl sniffed more sharply, rubbing her nose against the back of her hand, then said in a wobbly voice, "T-the roses."

Mrs. Overland turned her head towards the rose bush. She had groomed it from a wild rose bush she had found in the woods, trimming it and pruning it so that its flourished gloriously the way it did, from delicate red blossoms peeking out from the buds to the resplendent crimson blooms that wore the majesty of queens. As nearly perfect as the rose bush appeared to be, the branches were laced heavily with thorns, so she then asked the girl, "Did you prick yourself? Are you hurt?"

She took the girl's hands in her own and unfolded the fingers, examining the palms then turning them over. She could not see any cuts or scars.

"It's not that, Ma," Emma said between a swallowed sob, drawing back her hands to herself. "It's just that-" her voice broke a little "-it's just that he loves roses. He'd tell me such stories about them sometimes."

And then Mrs. Overland understood. Emma's favorite tales for her brother to tell was of Jack Frost and Snow Queen and other ice creatures, but Jack himself had been fonder of warm things, like roses. Roses, he would tell her sister, were enchanted, with magic powers. Why, it was even said that once there was a prince that was turned into a beast who was held captive by a wilting rose and a curse to find true love! For indeed, roses were the truest symbols of love, he had once told his sister whilst tapping playfully her on her nose; white for purity, pink for admiration, yellow for friendship, and red for the deepest, truest, most passionate of loves.

"Oh, Emma." Inwardly, she wanted to scold the girl for getting overtly emotional again, but Mrs. Overland did not have a heart to. She instead embraced her daughter, who was still sobbing as she clung to her mother.

The woman took her daughter back into the cottage, because dusk was falling soon and the curfew would be locked down any moment. She helped the girl wipe her face, brushed her hair back and finally got her a cup of milk. As the girl slowly drank from her tin cup, her mother sat herself across her at their table, trying to think of the best way to convey her thoughts.

"Emma," she finally said. Her daughter looked up at her. "This has been going on a bit too long, don't you think?"

"What, Ma?" the girl asked with wide, red-rimmed eyes, before taking another gulp of milk.

There was a heavy silence before the woman finally dared to say, albeit hesitantly, "You know, and I know, that he's not coming back."

She watched as her daughter, just barely nine years old, pause at the words. The girl quietly removed the tin cup from her lips and said softly, but certainly, "Yes, he is."

"No, he's _not_ , Emma," the mother contradicted firmly, raising her voice unintentionally, before quickly lowering it again. "Emma, you saw the Games on the television. You know the truth. He's-" Mrs. Overland sent out a silent prayer to the heavens before she went on "-he's gone. Emma, you have to let go."

"No!" The girl's protest lacked vocal power, but the ferocity in her expression certainly made up for it. "He's alive! I know he is. We just have to believe hard enough."

"Emma,-" Mrs. Overland was rubbing her forehead vigorously as she tried to phrase her thoughts better, "-this is not a fairytale. Jack's not going to come back if you just wish hard enough."

"That's why you cannot just _wish_ ," Emma retorted, not backing down. Her small fingers curled fiercely around her cup handle, her chocolate brown eyes seeming to catch flame. "You have to _believe_ with your heart. If not, it won't come true."

"Jack is _dead_ , Emma!" She was almost screaming it. "Why can't you see that?"

The girl seemed genuinely taken aback, stunned by the outcry. Mrs. Overland slumped herself back against the chair, suddenly feeling horribly exhausted. She could not take this anymore. No, she couldn't.

"Go to your room, Emma," she told the girl hoarsely. "There'll be no supper for you."

The girl rose to her feet, meekly setting her empty cup on the dining table and walking towards the door that led to her bedroom. Before she entered, however, she turned back to her mother. Her gaze was soft, a little sorrowful even, and strangely, it also seemed wise – wise beyond her years.

"Jack isn't dead, Ma," the girl said gently. "Why can't you see that?"

After the girl's bedroom door was shut, Mrs. Overland just sat alone in the dining room, trying desperately not to weep. She pressed her lips together, staring determinedly upwards for a long silent moment. One of them in this household had to keep it together. One of them in this household had to protect this family. It had once been her husband. Then, it became her son. Now, it had to be her.

When she rose to her feet, she was a woman on a mission. She searched the dish cupboards first, empty out every third piece of cutlery and every third set of utensils. She also removed the larger lunch pail, though keeping the smaller one under the sink, as she always did. These removed items she transferred to another cupboard which was beyond Emma's reach.

She then went up to her own bedroom. There was only one bed there, for they hadn't been able to afford another one then. She and Jack had taken turns sleeping on it, but in the end, being a faithful son, he had always insisted on sleeping on the floor whilst she enjoyed the comforts of the feather-stuff mattress. Now, she headed to the wardrobe and empty it out of all his clothes without so much as a flinch. Those that were still usable, she set aside. Maybe she could barter them away for some food or more useful wares. The other dilapidated pieces of fabric, she decided, would be turned to rags for cleaning.

The last task that she needed to do was in the garden, so she wrapped some of the old rags around her hands like gloves. She then went to retrieve her gardening tools, which she kept in the kitchen (leaving them outside left them prone to be stolen). She then headed out of her door, into the garden.

The sun was going down. She did not have a lot of time.

Mrs. Overland took up her shovel and began digging determinedly into the dirt. Clump by clump flew over her shoulder as she got deeper into the ground. Her arms ached and her bones burned, but she worked at the ruthless pace she had set for herself. She could not leave this till tomorrow. She could not live through this again.

The roots of the rose bush were soon completely uncovered. She lifted it up, which was not difficult, since it was not very large. Hugging it to her chest, she scanned her surroundings for any Peacekeepers, before darting out of the gardens, through the fields, into the woods.

If she had a choice, she would burn the bush and rid them completely of it, but the smoke would attract the Peacekeepers' attention, which she did not desire. So she took it deep into the woods, going to the one place she knew her wandering daughter would avoid.

Darkness had fallen once she had arrived at her destination. She had not brought the shovel with her, so she could not dig into the soil and replant the rose bush. To be perfectly honest though, she was not sure she wanted the bush to continue thriving, especially not since its flowers were nothing but toxic to her daughter's sanity. So she left the uprooted rose bush by the tombstone of her son, tossed away like dust in the wind.

Without loving care, the damp and the cold of the forest would kill it. Bright red petals would tumble to the ground as the healthy blooms sickened to wilting. Leaves would shrivel up and the branches would be cracked by dehydration. It would rot away and die, the way her son had, for such was the way of the world.

Unlike the fairytales, roses were not magical, believing things did not make it come true and love could not conquer all.

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **MiM is a strange one, but I enjoy writing him.**

 **Valka, as Prof. Vogstein, had her first cameo in Chapter 3. I'm finally bringing in HTTYD2 material. And Toothless is back! Yay!**

 **Jack Overland is dead. Jack Frost is alive. Can't say who's sadder – Emma or Mrs. Overland.**

 **Up Next: Hopefully more Elsa, a little Hiro and who knows?**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Thank you, SpinItHypo for helping edit this on the last minute and for all the suggestions.**

 **Life's good. God's good. I'm starting school soon.**

 **See you next time.**

 **Review. Ask questions. Critique.**


	9. Chapter 8: Armed and Dangerous

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 8: Armed and Dangerous

* * *

 **A recap, since it's been a while since the last update:**

 _Merida, Hiccup, Hiro, Elsa and Ralph are hiding in District 13, a safe haven away from the tyrannical rule of the Capitol. Of course, the District has its own troubles, with Elsa still being confinement due to her powers, Merida still trapped in nightmares and Hiro has to a tight deadline to create a programme that would allow the Rebellion to watch the moves of the Capitol. Hiccup's still feeling the prejudices of the District people – with reason, since he is from the Peacekeeping District – but things have gotten better after he's been reunited with Toothless. As arranged by the Man-in-the-Moon (MiM), the mysterious, faceless leader of the Rebellion in Panem, he has since started working for the District 13's resident dragon expert, Professor Valka Vogstein, in the Dragon Sanctuary._

 _On the other side at the Capitol, a white-haired boy has been revived from the dead and the only reason why he knows his name is because someone told it to him. He has also developed rather interesting ability, but we'll talk more about him another time._

 _To the story, which happens about a month after the last chapter…_

* * *

 **District 13**

She was starting to lose track of time.

It felt as if it were just a week ago since the Games had gone, maybe three days after her last visit to jail, and just a day since the Two boy got free.

But it wasn't.

When she checked the dates on the television screen, Merida grimaced as she noted the amount of time that had passed. The world, it seemed, had done a pretty good job of moving on without her.

She knew that the doctors were no longer monitoring her as closely as they used to, which gave her room to do as she pleased – and she held back nothing. Before she noticed it, she was sitting in the back closet, pressing needles under her skin again and numbing her senses to the nightmares.

 _Jings Crivens._ No wonder she never noticed time going by.

They more or less gave up on slotting her in for military training, since she never went for it, but that didn't mean that they didn't try to give her 'harmless' jobs – to keep her away from idle temptations, if nothing else. She had to admit that wiping down the shower rooms was exhausting and time-consuming enough to keep her from trouble, but she would still find herself walking up at the odd hours of the night shaking and sweating. The psychologist that they made her see told her every now and then that she needed to find a purpose here. Merida wasn't completely sure what that meant – she was too busy trying to decide if that distant screams rattling against her ear-drums were coming from behind her or just inside her head.

Wake up. Do menial assigned chores. Returning to compartment to slack off and sleep. Venture out and night. If possible, obtain morphling. If not, find a blank wall to stare at for a few hours. Then, she would return to the compartment and doze for another few hours, before waking again.

This was starting to become a rather tiresome game.

It was one day while mopping the corridor along a compartment block that the redhead heard a loud call. She forced herself not to jump up to it – the morphling that she took a few days back made her rather sensitive to sudden noises, and she had much rather it if the doctors hadn't discovered her relapse yet. They would take away the only thing made her life bearable.

"Dunbroch!"

Okay, that voice wasn't imaginary.

She slowly twisted her head around, red curls flowing with the movement, shifting from her back to over her shoulder. She found herself eye to eye with that soldier lady – what's her name? The blonde one that betrayed the Capitol and stuff…

The woman glared at her, before raising an armored finger and pointed at the spot before her. "Get your butt here right this instance!"

The girl groaned inwardly, sticking her mop back into the bucket. She took a moment to straighten up her dowdy uniform before walking up to the ex-Capitol soldier woman, her gait slightly crooked and her smile much alike. Putting one arm on her hip, she rolled her shoulders back without changing her expression. She waited.

The blonde woman examined her with a disgusted expression, her feelings made even more apparent by how she slapped her gloved hands together. "My, you're a piece of work."

Merida would have probably been offended, except that it was true and she was pass the point of actually caring. "Yeah…and who are you again?"

"Lieutenant Calhoun." The soldier eyed her with much revulsion, before informing her, "I have a set of orders for you." It was then something was shoved into Merida's chest, something soft and not very heavy. Still, its presence shocked her, and she stumbled back several steps.

"Get dressed," the soldier ordered. "And meet me at the foyer of the geographical department at fifteen hours. Is that clear?"

The girl squinted down at the new garment, then raised her head to gawk at the tall woman.

Lt. Calhoun frowned. "Is that clear?"

It wasn't as if there was much options in the answer. "Yes, m'am."

"Good. See you there."

As the redhead got changed into the new clothes back in her compartment, she couldn't help but notice it was rather difference from the starched, stiff uniforms. It was made of a soft fabric of dullish green colors, even with a hood that she could draw over her head. It was loose and easy on the skin, which vaguely reminded her off the clothes she would have thrown on back in District 5. That was the time before her mother started making her wear dresses and pin up her hair.

For all the time that she had spent in the underground district, Merida had no clue what the geographical department of District 13 did. She had no clue of what most people here did actually, which was odd considering that how she had seen of the place. As she stood at the foyer at the ordered time, gazing uninterestedly at the uniformed personnel carrying files and studying screens, she suddenly felt herself being grabbed by the shoulder.

The contact must have triggered something in her, for her heart suddenly began to race at a thousand paces a minute and her chest felt constricted. She whipped around, her own hands latched onto the hard military gauntlet and shoving it hard away.

Lt. Calhourn looked at her with a raised brow as she pulled her tossed arm back to her side.

Suppressing the tingling sensation under her skin that made her feel all jittery, the redhead lifted her chin up at the soldier, nodding in the direction of the geographical department. "So you asked me here and I'm here. Now what?"

The lack of military etiquette was definitely noticed by Lt. Calhourn, but she didn't comment on it, merely telling her, "Follow me."

Well, it wasn't as if she had much planned for the day other than moping around and warding off demons.

The Lieutenant led her through the workers of the geographic department, and as she saw more of the cubicles of workers and maps and lines that she didn't understand, Merida began against her own will to panic. Could it be that she was to be assigned to work here? In this stale, boxed environment? Oh, _no_. _No way_. She was _not_ getting a schedule. She was _not_ going to be put under some horrible rules and be told what to do and be made to become something she didn't want to –

"Keep up, Dunbroch," she heard the blonde woman call to her. Merida hadn't realized it, but her pace had slowed as the thoughts started to overwhelm her. She was almost five feet apart from the lieutenant now, and the escapist part of her knew that if she wanted to flee, it had to be soon.

But instead of turning around to lead the way as the redhead had hoped, the Lieutenant retraced her steps, grabbed her by the shoulder and almost forcefully dragged her forward.

Well, there was an opportunity that flew out of the window. Merida's heart sank.

Eventually, they arrived at an elevator landing. Access to the elevator itself required some passcode entry, which the Lieutenant was quick to provide. An approving buzz responded to her entry and the door opened, allowing the two of them boarded. Merida winced as the gears turned and the elevator began to move, but instead of going down as most elevators here did, it went up.

The walls of the shaft were completely opaque, which kept her from seeing exactly where they were going. As she began a tired study of the moving ground below her, Merida realized that much of the carriage seemed rather worn and tired, infected with rust and jagged lines on its sides. It was nothing like the clean, cut serviceable shuttles that had been installed all over Thirteen.

When they had arrived at their destination, with the base of the carriage jiggling a good minute before the doors drew themselves open, Merida felt something cool hit her. Something that tasted like damp and soil. Something that tasted alive. Her eyes, which had been half-closed for most part of today, widened with surprised as old feelings that she had thought she had forgotten rose up in her chest. It was – excitement, familiarity and …

… _security._

"This is a restricted zone. I'm afraid you have to turn around, M'am." Ahead of them was some kind of gate, sealed by a metallic wall and guarded by two armed soldiers.

Lt. Calhourn had marched forward to speak to her subordinates, but Merida's steps halted as she studied the sealed gate. Though appearance-wise it seemed impenetrable, she could feel that a breeze from the outside seeping through the cracks. Somewhere deep inside her grew a longing to see beyond the gate – to be released from this underground district that was her haven-turned-hell for the last seven months.

"Do you know who I am?" she heard Calhourn hiss and turned her head in time to watch the shorter blonde soldier glaring up at the private, who was almost shaking in his boots.

The private swallowed. "Yes, Li-lieutenant, M'am."

"Good." Calhourn drew herself back, radiating confidence and threat. "Now, open the gate."

The private glanced uneasily at his partner, who reluctantly reached for the control panel nearby. Some button-pressing and dial-turning later, Merida suddenly felt the ground below them shudder. The tooth-shaped edges of the gate door separated, but she couldn't see what was beyond it, for the light reflected of the metallic surfaces blinded her. She was not alone, for Calhourn and the two soldier also lifted their hands to protect their eyes from the brightness. The streams of air she had felt before now joined into a single gust and she realized that in being underground, she had forgotten what the wind felt like.

"Alright, Dunbroch. Today's your lucky day, but there are still rules for this," Calhoun said, tone still rather impatient, walking over to her. "First off, you have to- _hey_!"

The doors hadn't fully parted before she had dashed out into the wilderness. Green and brown filled her every turn. Fresh air filled her lungs and her hair. The sun beat down against her skin - a burning kiss that though slightly uncomfortable made her incredibly happy now. As she sprinted into the forestry, she shut her ears to the Lieutenant's calls and turned herself to the voices that she understood – the voices that she loved.

It was wonderful - to feel the fronds brush against her skin, to feel unevenness of the stone-studded ground below her, to feel the sweat on her skin. She didn't know when she started to smile, but she was smiling – laughing even. She took the time to feel the roughness of the bark on the oaks, and stopped to feel the coolness of the water from the stream. She stood still in the sunlight and just basked. It was funny. Back in District 5, sunlight was cheap as dirt, but now sunlight and dirt themselves were more valuable than gold in her eyes. It was as if she had awoken from horrible stifling nightmare into a warm, rosy world where the Games never happened and she merely a fence away from home.

She must have been out for at least two hours, or more, because the sun had started to set before the anyone found her. Admittedly, Merida had spent much of that two hours running away from any of the voices that had called out her name. She knew that her behavior earlier on had gotten on Calhoun's nerves, and this little running away would only strike her ire further. She wanted to stay here, balanced on a branch and recline against the stout trunk of an oak, forever. She didn't want to go back to under the ground. That place was like a box of terrors she never wanted to be trapped in ever again. If they wanted her back down there with them and their stuffy uniforms and stuffy rules, they had to drag her back screaming.

"How's it up there?"

She had heard that question before, while standing on a block of stones and looking down upon a bunch of children her age – all who wished to kill her. Merida reached behind her for an arrow, only to remember she had no arrows, or bow even.

Warily, she glanced down below her.

A familiar large-sized block of a boy struggled to heave himself up one of the branches, succeeding after not one, not three, but four attempts. Panting as he sat himself precariously on the bent branch, Ralph gasped, "Don't know" _– gasp –_ "how you do this" _– gasp._

"I thought you're from District 11," Merida remarked brusquely, smiling despite herself at how ridiculous the huge sized fellow appeared while balancing himself on the wiry beam. "Shouldn't you have had plenty of practice climbing trees to pick fruits and the like?"

"My jobs in District 11 were mostly to do with wrecking," Ralph answered, grimacing as he felt the branch below him groan after his full weight came up it. Placing a shaky hand against the trunk to steady himself, he looked up to the girl. "You know, Lt. Calhoun's got quite a lot of people looking for you. My squad's been out here searching for hours."

She blinked, peering down at him in surprise. "You're in a squad already?"

"Been in it for some time. Special Forces. I thought you knew." He seemed rather peeved about her reaction. "Or maybe you forgot about it after I told you."

Merida would have liked to deny it, but she knew that the hits of morphling had done another on her mind and not everything was as easy as it used to be.

Instead of addressing his accusation, she changed the topic. "You should just go back and tell the Lieutenant to leave me up here." Her eyes fell over the red-warmed leaves over her head, her arms falling back and brushing against the wood as a way of assuring herself. "I don't want to go back to District 13. It's not as if I'm useful there, anyway."

"I don't think you've got a choice, kid." Ralph shook his head, but at least he looked a little sympathetic. "It's the law of District 13, and you're a citizen of it now, whether you like it or not."

"Well, I don't want to be a citizen of District 13," Merida snapped, turning her gaze sharply away from the humongous soldier balancing precariously on the birch below. "I don't want to go back there."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want-" she was going to say _'to stay here'_ , but then she realized it wasn't true. Merida didn't mind staying here for a while, but she wouldn't stay here forever. She knew where she really wanted to be "-to go home."

"Well, you can't, kid."

"Why not?" The notion, which had been a passing fancy a second ago, suddenly blossomed in attractive the more she thought about it "I could travel home on my own, by foot. I know how to forage and hunt. I'm a good tracker."

"You'll never get that far before the Capitol captures you. If it were that easy to escape to District 13, there'd be way more refugees in the place." Ralph's rough voice cut through her fantasies brutally. "Anyway, even if you don't get caught, I don't think you're in any state to go travelling on your own."

Merida shot a fierce look at him. "You don't think I can look after myself?"

"Right now, kid, I don't even think you can walk in a straight line," he answered bluntly, gesturing at her with a large hand. "Look – can you even hold your hands still?"

She made a loud _'phhffff'_ through pursed lips, almost laughing. "Of course, I can! How else do you think I'm such a good sho-" she then looked down at her hands. Both were trembling, as if they were just a column of bones dangling in the wind.

"It's the morphling. It makes the body really weird," Ralph told her as she continued to stare incredulously at her shaking fingers. "I know, because soldiers who have to go on it during treatment aren't allowed to use range-weapons till the effect wears off. Most of them don't take it half as often as you do, though."

She gave him a withering look. He simply returned it with equal force.

Merida clenched her shaking hands and leaned back into the tree. She supposed he was right. With her body still muddled with the morphling and her lack of weaponry, she wouldn't make a day out here on her own. Still, this didn't make return back to District 13 any more appealing.

Seeing that she wasn't going to reply, Ralph then put in, "You know, I overheard the Lieutenant talk about you, actually – about how they want to make some kind of deal with your or something."

The girl perked up at the word, but skepticism tapered her reaction. "What kind of deal?"

"Something to do with letting you come out here from time to time," the District 11 boy elucidated. "In exchange for that, you'll train."

Merida's eyes narrowed. "Like you?"

"Yes."

The girl made a face. "Why on Earth would they want _me_ to train with you guys?"

"They've watched your footage of the Games, kid. They know you've got a good shot. We need talent on the team. With some training-" the boy shrugged "-you could be the best sharp shooter District 13 has ever seen – maybe the Capitol, even."

"I'm not killing anyone for this District." The girl gritted her teeth together, voice rising to a crescendo. "I'm not killing anyone _at all_. I'd never hold a gun anyway." Toying with a leaf that had fallen from above onto her lap, she muttered, "Guns are for peacekeepers."

"Hey, I'm sure they'd work out something for you if you train hard enough. But for the killing part…" Ralph went silent for a good while, before speaking up again in a much softer tone, "Look, kid, it's not an easy thing, but it needs to be done."

"Didn't you have enough of killing in the Games, Ralph? Or was smashing Turbo's head in not bloody enough for you?" It was a low blow, and Merida knew it even as she said it. Pride however, kept her from taking it back.

Ralph's brows furrowed together, the frown lines on his forehead deepening. "Merida, I'm tired of trying to cover up for you every time you mess up. I get it that you're going through some hard stuff– but guess what? Everyone in this District is! But we can't let this stuff stop us from moving forward. If we want to put an end to Capitol, we have to push forward, no matter what. Even if it makes us uncomfortable. Even if it upsets us." His voice dropped several decibels. "Even if it means us living through nightmare after nightmare so that other people won't need to do it."

She heard the rustling of leaves under her and she peered down. Ralph had begun climbing down to the ground, careful not to snap the branches as he did. "Think about it, kid," he called to her. "The only way you're going to get home is if this war ends."

His words rang in her mind. A few minutes after he had vanished from her view point, Merida scowled at the sunset. She knew he was right.

With much regret, she began to descend the birch, glancing longing one last time at the sunset before scaling down. It was going to be a while before she saw it again.

* * *

The lights from the screen were starting to get to him.

The boy hunched over the messy work space sighed, running an exhausted hand through the spiky tufts that was hair. He felt cool streams of sweat running down the sides of his face, dripping off his chin and landing inelegantly on the large holo-computer before him. The screen buzzed in annoyance, and red circle appeared on its six by two feet long screen, highlighting the interference with unneeded urgency.

Hiro rolled his eyes as he pulled up the front of his uniform, stuck his hand under it and used the fabric to dry the liquid off. The screen finally ceased its incessant buzzing and he felt his shoulder slump back.

He had maybe two work hours more to go before he finally finished the job – the job that had bought him four lives and his own. The job that would supposedly be the key to turning the tide to the favor of the rebellion.

His deadline – well, technically fourth deadline that he had had after three requests for extension – was next week, so he was running ahead of schedule. He noted with odd detachment that his vision was starting to blur and his apathy towards his task was increasing. Yep, he could definitely do with a break.

He rolled his chair away from the holo-computer, swerving it around slowly with his shaky hands towards an adjacent work trolley. Upon the trolley was his masterpiece, freshly assembled from the 3D printer just yesterday. It had taken hours of experimentation, designing and refinement, but he had not minded. He had enjoyed the process almost as much as he hated the real job that he was supposed to complete, to be honest. He really did miss being a craftsman.

Hiro smiled at himself as he mulled over the thought. He had never thought himself as an artist before, and it was certainly a pleasant notion. If this was art and art was emotion, it was no wonder building the suit was such a joy for him.

"Might as well," he murmured to himself lightly as he touched the screen that the suit was connected to, adjusting the appropriate switches. The metal-like pieces on the trolley began glow as the programmed data flowed into them through the wires they were hooked too. Hiro found himself shaking as he reclined into the chair once again, but why should he be? His masterpiece was on the verge of completion, and he couldn't wait to show it off.

Once the screen read that the upload had been successful, he rolled himself nearer to the trolley and began removing all the wires. The glow in the pieces when he did that, but a simple nudge from him made them light up again, proving that they were ready for use.

He was actually planning to show her tomorrow, but heck, he wasn't going to do anymore work at two in the morning.

Hiro rolled his chair forward, controlling the movements of the wheels such that the back of his chair was facing the front of the trolley. He then twisted himself around to hook the trolley to the wheelchair, making sure the binds were nice and secure before sitting back front again.

He let out a long breath, then placed both of his hands on the wheel. His fingers met the rubber and he began his arduous journey out of his work office.

* * *

"Are you done yet?"

Elsa was not surprised to have a visit at that this unholy hour. She had come to look forward to these visits after hours upon hours of isolation in her insulated compartment, but she had not expected Hiro rolling in with a trolley latched to his chair, as if he was playing trains. His eyes had been oddly bright as he explained the contraption that he had behind him. Of course, he had said it all really quickly and she didn't even catch half of it, but her previous experience told her to just take the contraptions, put them on and try out her powers.

There were many parts to Hiro's creation, and considering that the door from which they could exchange things was frightfully narrow, they had to pass one object through at a time, and in a strategic manner. First came the headband, which she slipped hurried as soon as she received it.

As Hiro had programmed, the neurotransmitter signals that the band sent through her brains helped to muffled her powers enough for her to slip on the metallic braces over her arms. The design had improved tremendously, with the gloves slipping over almost like a second skin. It had also been adjusted to feel a great deal lighter and move moldable to her movements. She then took up the boots that he had made and removed her ice-shoes to slip them over. She had to admit that she was not as used to weight on her feet as she did for the gloves, but Hiro assured her that the footwear was programmed to adapt itself to best fit her comfort over time.

The other large pieces that were supposed to cover her back, chest, abdomen and so forth required her to remove her clothes before wearing them, so she brought the pieces back to her private backroom out of sight from the meeting counter and stripped. Though he had taken care to add cushioned pads into the pieces, the new layer over her skin still felt unnatural and she found herself tugging at the metallic contraptions with a dubious expression. When she fit place the last of the pieces, her eyes flitted to one of her room walls that she had covered in shimmering crystal. The reflection that she saw looking back made her stumble back in shock. The suit really covered every inch of her except her head, with each of its blocks crafted to fit her form perfectly. She twirled around as she examined the metallic skin that she now wore over her own, and felt that 'skin' was not quite the right way to describe it. It looked more like … armor.

"Elsa?" She heard Hiro call. "You okay in there?"

She glanced down at her discarded ice garment and pondered over whether she should wear them over the armor. But the colorless shift that she had thoughtlessly crafted before sleeping did not fit in with the armor. This armor gave her body a sleek, streamlined appearance that was attractive in its elegance. The band over her forehead granted an aura of control and authority. The flicker of patterns running along the polished plates, which she had assumed were for some practical purpose, now were clearly to seen to be solely for the sake of making her look sophisticated and deadly.

She looked like a warrior.

It would be an insult to Hiro's craft if she covered up his armor with a fabric of her own, but she was uncomfortable in showing herself in nothing but the suit. Years of carefully dressing thanks to her powers had imbued in her a sense of modesty and it took her a while to figure out a compromise.

"Give me a moment," Elsa called to the boy, as she tentatively lifted her right hand towards herself. Her breath was tight as she allowed herself to form an image in her mind. With an exhale, she let her powers go.

White light burst from her hands in spirals and specks of snow, weaving over her shoulders and down the shoulder blades, rushing around till fabric came into being. The cloak that now fell behind her was could be pulled over herself when she felt a need to cover herself and pushed behind her when she needed it out of the way. It was a fashionable solution to her dilemma, and she felt a little proud for solving this problem herself. Elsa glanced admiring at the metal contraption that fit her so well and felt respect for the young engineer swelling in her heart.

"I'm coming out now," she called out to prepare him, unable to really repress the giggle that followed after. She hadn't giggled in ages, but the euphoria bubbling within her could not be contained. As she stepped towards the opening with her metal-weight feet, she felt as if she was walking on air.

When she emerged from her private chambers, back into the meeting room. She opened her mouth to announce herself, fully intending to step forward and show off the boy's invention to himself. But Hiro was not looking at her. He was staring blankly at wall, blinking occasionally while bearing a dazed expression.

She moved up towards the glass barrier that separated them, sitting herself at the table and clicking on the microphone. "Hiro?"

He did not move, only blinking again at that invisible picture that he was examining in the blank wall.

She spoke with great force, "Hiro."

The boy's head sharply jerked towards her and his brown eyes fell on her. But the look was unfocused and when he parted his lips, no words came out. Just the shallowed sound of breathing.

Before she could say anything else, the boy suddenly tipped to his right, his weight dragging him down with gravity and flopping him out of his chair, onto the ground.

"Hiro!" The blonde girl flew off her seat, climbing up onto the table to get a better look at the boy who had disappeared out her vision. Through the frosted glass, she could see that his small form sprawled on the ground, trembling slightly but without sign of him getting up.

She slammed her metal-lined palm on the glass. "Hiro!"

He did not respond.

Elsa slid herself off the table, trying not to trip over the cloak she had just made. She was cursing it now as she hurried over to the voice intercom that she had installed in her room. She used it once in a blue moon to request for small items, like notebooks or pens, and the person on the receiving end would have someone else to bring it down.

But no matter how hard she jabbed the button now, there was no one picking it up.

"Please, please answer," she pleaded under her breath, but there was none to hear it. At this unholy hour, there was no one stationed to receive her calls.

After finally giving up on that, Elsa darted back to the glass and latched herself to the surface, checking on him once again. She had rather hoped that he would suddenly sit up, laugh and taunt her for falling for his prank, but he did no such thing. He lay helplessly on the floor and she was trapped helplessly behind in her containment cell.

Then, she peered at the frost – her own frost – creeping along the glass surface.

Perhaps being 'trapped' was not true.

She planted her both palms against the glass surface, sucking in the air as she channeled all of her energy to the plan she had in her mind. Ice started spreading rapidly across both sides of the glass, complex vines woven over one another like tapestry, flying faster than an eagle across the surface. She watched as the glass under hands became an opaque blue and when she felt fragments moving under her palms. She was afraid, very much afraid, but her worry had no influence over her powers. The band around her forehead subdued her emotion while the rational part of her mind instructed cold to pour out of her plated hands. When the weight of the ice was too great for the glass to bear, large fissures tore themselves from inside of the glass to out.

The glass before her exploded into fragments.

Elsa stood there stunned for a moment, quite unable to comprehend was had just occurred. She examined at the wreckage she had just made, then down to her hands, then out at the other end of the meeting room. She climbed over the ledge with an apprehensive expression, landing uneasily on the ground.

It had been seven months since her arrival to District 13, and this was her first time stepping out of the enclosure.

But she could not stop to savor the moment, or do anything with moment, actually, because she remembered her goal. Elsa stepped on the glass and snow fragments as she moved towards the boy on the ground. Brushing the debris off him, her heart sank when she found that his eyes were still closed and his breathing still unnatural.

With tense muscles, she scooped the lad's limp form in her arms, shaking him gently. "Hiro." No response. Harder shake -"Hiro!"

He showed no signs of waking and she didn't know what to do.

Wait, no, she did.

The boy was not that heavy, actually, and she was able to slid her arms over his knees and his back, lifting him up. His head rested against her chest as she pushed her way out of the door, teeth clenched as she struggled to control her anxiousness and think clearly. Elsa gazed out at the long tunnels that stretched in front and behind her, and she didn't know where to go.

Fortunately, there were signs marked out on the walls, so she adjusted the wiry body in her arms and darted down where she presumed was the exit. Occasional individuals whom she passed gawked at her in astonishment and under different circumstances, she supposed she would have balked at it. But now, her attention was split to its seams between trying to figure out where to go and praying that the boy was alright. She found herself passing lots of empty cubicles before stopping at some kind of lift landing.

"Where's the infirmary?" the blonde girl shot the question at two uniformed soldiers standing guard there. Both of them gazed at her stupefied, the guns in their hands going slack. Elsa let out a huff of irritation. Hiro didn't have time for this! " _Well?_ Where's it?"

Finally, one of them answered, "You'll need to go down three levels." Now it was Elsa's turn to look confused. The soldier beckoned her. "C'mon."

He waved her into the elevator and hit the button inside the carriage before stepping out. Elsa tapped her feet impatiently as she felt the lift going down, biting her lips as she peered down at the poor lad in her arms. His face was pale and his lips blue. He was shivering and she feel his weak breaths against her chin. A surge of worry rose from within her and she had to crush all thoughts of smashing the lift panel, lest her powers actually fulfil that desire.

When the doors whipped open, she grabbed the first person she saw and all but yelled the question. The surprised and slightly perturbed attendant pointed the directions to her and she swung herself around accordingly, cloak flying behind her. Her legs burned under exertion and it occurred to her that it had been ages since she had used them to walk such a distance, not to mention run. And running did not bring back good memories.

Quite by accident, she found herself stumbling into a dim lit hall where occupied by people in white-coloured uniforms. Elsa saw the trolleys of medicine, the rows of beds and beeping machines hooked to the patients and knew that she was in the right place. Lifting the limp figure in her arms towards them, a whisper was all that escaped her throat, "Help him. Please."

The nurses came approached at her without question, though they did remark in alarm at the sight of the pale boy in her arms. Someone brought over a rolleable bed for her to lay him down on and they pushed him away, strapping machines to him to check for vital signs and examining him with stern expressions.

Elsa allowed herself to relax now that the task was over, rubbing her arms over the metallic plating while breathing deeply. She watched as the bed drifted out of sight, with her anxiety for the boy lessening, but not by much.

And then she realized that everyone in the hospital ward was staring at her. The young man lying on the patient bed with a broken arm had his gaze fixed on her. The old woman sitting on a chair with tubes stuck in her veins had her eyes glued to her. The attendant was recording something into case notes kept lifting his head towards her, then dropped it down, then lifted it up again.

"You." It took her a while to place the voice, and when she did, she realized that she was looking at a young boy with brown chocolate hair. He couldn't be more than ten, but there were specks of scars dribbled from his forehead to him chin, long swathes wrapped around his abdomen and one of his legs raised up in a cast. There was a sad quietness in him that indicated that he had seen sorrow past his years, but the hopeful innocence in his tone struck her straight to the core. "You…you're the Snow Queen, aren't you?"

The girl did not know quite how to reply. Most of the memories that she had associated with that name was with the Games, which was never a pleasant recollection. But when he said it, it was a title of awe and respect.

What made even less sense was that when she peered at the others in the hospital ward, their expressions were much the same.

"Soldier Arendelle."

Elsa spun around at the unfamiliar title and discovered that a tall, broad-shoulder woman in a uniform staring intently at her. She had seen the woman before, and knew roughly that she had been part of the extraction of Five of them during the Games, but had only seen her once from the inside of her thermostatic enclosure.

And then it occurred to her – she had essentially destroyed the thermostatic enclosure. Where would they hold her now?

The soldier standing at the entrance of the infirmary jerked her head towards her right. "Talk. Now."

* * *

"He built you a suit that can contain your powers?"

"Yes, sir. He separated the link between my emotions and my powers. I can control my powers better with my mind now."

District 13's uppermost council all gazed across the table at the girl in the silver suit. Though she stood up straight with her chin lifted high, her hands were entwined tightly together in nervousness.

There was some discussion amongst the council, before one of its members asked, "What is Soldier Hamada's diagnosis?"

"Syncope, as a result of stress, poor dietary habits and emotional unbalance," another member read from the screen on her side of the table, flickering a finger against the surface to scroll down. "It may or may not be related to post-traumatic experiences and Soldier Hamada's previous injury. The assigned doctor has ordered additional investigation."

"Is he conscious now?" spoke the head of the council. His steely eyes seemed to pierce right through the girl that people called the Snow Queen, and she shuddered involuntarily.

"No. He was briefly for a few minutes, before falling asleep," the council lady answered as she scanned through the information

"Soldier Hamada knew that his deadline is in a week," the President's voice sliced right through the woman's, making her shroud back. The large, dark man did not notice it, or if he did he did not care. "He knew that he had obligations to fulfil, yet he used his time to pursue unimportant matters."

The girl in the metal suit cringed in embarrassment, taking a step back self-consciously.

"When he awakes, have the necessary tools brought to him to finish his work. Set up computers in the infirmary if needs be. It would be unwise not to catch onto the fire of rebellion whilst they grow."

"Mr. President," a kind, yet firm voice interjected at the uneasy silence that followed his declaration, "Soldier Hamada's condition was caused precisely because of the stress of his workload. Plopping it down on his shoulders at this point could kill him."

"So be it, as long as he finishes the program before that," intoned the Chief of State coldly as he wrapped his cloak, a black, shimmering thing, more tightly over himself. "All victories must have sacrifices, but one as irresponsible as Hamada could be hardly counted as a loss." The calloused features formed a grimace. "A waste of talent indeed. A waste of incredible talent."

It could be felt that the statement was also said in reference to the young girl, who stood shaking at the end of the table.

The meeting was adjourned eventually. Calhoun, like the rest of the members of the council, rose to her feet and prepared to make her way out of the room when she heard her name being called.

She paused her steps and flattened herself against the wall, allowing the other members to pass her by and make their exit. The blonde soldier then went up to the door and pulled them shut. She then made her way over to where the President was, just in time to note him drawing out various holoscreens in front of him. She halted three feet away and saluted her commander-in-chief. "Mr. President."

"At ease, Lieutenant-" his raspy voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet there was still something chilling about it, "-and take a seat."

The woman nodded in acknowledgement and followed as he had directed. She watched as he moved his hands over the interface, bringing out an array of videos. A few of them showed were the broadcast clips from the Capitol, but most was actually footage of District people marching with their fists held high and their voices calling out. The large muscular man did not speak to his subordinate for a while, just watching the videos. Her extensive military training back in the Capitol however had gave Calhoun great patience with her superiors, and she didn't even blink while waiting for him.

Finally, he said to her, "Do you think the mutant can be controlled?"

It took the Lieutenant a while to understand him. "The District 12 girl, sir?"

"They called her 'The Snow Queen', didn't they?" He stroked his chin thoughtfully while still gazing at the series of footage. "Do you think she can be controlled?"

Calhoun allowed herself a moment to think on how to phrase her answer. "I do believe that we can persuade her to join our cause."

"I am not talking just about loyalty – the gods know she's too spineless to fight against us." The man snorted derisively. "I ask – do you think her power can be _harnessed_?"

"With Hamada's technology, sir, I do think we stand a good chance," she replied evenly, her blank face revealing her inner thoughts.

The great man nodded, not in agreement as much as acknowledgement. He frowned at the images of violence that the Peacekeepers brought upon the protestors, with bullets flying in the air and people screaming everywhere. "The people are angry, but the flame of courage that anger provides will die out if not fanned well. The rebellion is still scattered and weak, clearly due to the lack of effort on out mutual _friend's_ part." He said 'friend' as if it were curse.

Calhoun did not comment on this, nor did she defend the one that he spoke about.

"The people need a unifying symbol – a face that they can get behind," the President went on in a brooding manner. "Creating one out of the blue would be difficult, but building on something historic – on something already monumental – that would be more effective."

He moved his hand, zooming into one of the video panels that displayed not footage of incensed protesting, but of the 74th Hunger Games itself. The soldier was quite unaffected by the gory images it showed, for her time in service of the Capitol had hardened her like stone, but she couldn't help but feel a stirring in her chest as the images moved to the softer scenes, like when the Haddock boy spared Hiro during the Feast, or when the Dunbroch girl lay flowers around the body of her young friend, or when the District 12 girl wept over the body of her fallen, frozen ally.

"I ask you, Lieutenant, and I hope that you can speak frankly." The President drew himself back, eyes seeming to glitter in the dim light. "Do you think our … _Snow Queen_ is up to the task?"

With a show of measure that she rarely displayed elsewhere, Calhoun allowed herself a minute or so to think, before finally voicing her thought, "Mr. President, the girl has just been released from captivity a few hours ago. She barely knows what District 13 looks like and I doubt she's ready to represent the rebellion at this stage. It wouldn't be wise to set all hopes on her at this point." She pursed her lips together as she thought how nervous the girl was when she appeared before the council. How on earth would she do anything in front of throngs of soldiers? Or weeping citizens? Or even more so, the enemy? "At least, not until she falls in with the system and is assessed to mentally fit. I think her current psychological records are less than encouraging."

The President considered her words, his right hand clenched in front of him on the table. He pressed, "But it is not impossible, then."

"Certainly not, sir," she answered crisply, "but she must be managed delicately. She has to be given time to heal. The idea of being an icon has to be carefully introduced. She's a girl. As much as I hate to say it, she needs guidance and support."

By his expression, her commander-in-chief did not fully agree with her opinion. But it didn't mean that he dismissed them completely either. "Can I count on it that you to see that she receives what she needs then?"

Years ago, Calhoun would have scorned being a 'babysitter' of all things to some frightened twit from District 12, but age and circumstance had given her a new perspective about the tasks she was given. If the hope of the rebellion required her careful watch, she would gladly volunteer – not that she would admit so out loud. It was still not a very desirable job. "Yes, sir."

"Good." The President dropped his gaze from her, interest in her presence abruptly vanished. "You're dismissed."

After Calhoun's departure, the President of District 13 lifted a hand over his interface and banished the depressing footage, changing over to general surveillance screens for the happenings over District 13. The monitoring network in the underground city was by no means as extensive as the ones in the Capitol, but it was decent enough to show him all that was going at the moment. From the infirmary, he saw that Hamada was still unconscious and being watched by the nurse automaton. At the training centre, he watched as the younger soldiers trained against their superiors, cringing at the blows and wincing at the ragging. At the barracks canteen, he watched as attendant gathered together to prepare meals for the coming hour, flustered all about. Everything was in order for the District for the time being, but he was not fooled that it could last forever. They needed to move, and soon, lest the war be lost before they could even fight for it.

A small window appeared on his holo-projector and he eyed it with unsurprised distaste. Grunting, he indicated on the interface to put through the call.

" _Good Evening, President. I trust that you have been well since we last spoke,"_ was the greeting he had come to despise, spoken through the irritating filter that too irked him to no end.

The man only replied, undisguised dislike in his tone, "Is there a purpose behind your call, MiM?"

" _I merely want to see check on the progress of your District with regards to freeing our nation from the wretched claws of Hugo Bernstein Lotso,"_ The Man-in-the-Moon answered with too much emotion. _"Also, it has come to my attention that one of the five children rescued from the Games has undergone a rather interesting … event, for lack of better words, which has increased her value in serving our cause."_

The man narrowed his brows together, his soft voice raised slightly. "And why would that matter to you?"

" _I would like to remind you that those children are under my authority and my protection."_

"They are citizens of this District. They will be judged and treated according to our laws," came his stiff reply.

The monotone voice sounded remarkably assertive. _"And that doesn't change the fact that you have made me responsible for them – and completely on your own accord. In other words, they're my people, and I take care of my people."_

"What is the point of all this rambling, MiM?" the President demanded, folding his arm over his chest.

" _I have ears in Thirteen, Mr. President, and I do not take lightly the threats made against my people lightly. If at any point I discover that you have abused my people, I will take swift and immediate action."_ The words from the computer generated voice were unmistakably harsh. _"The girl is not one of your mutts that you can beat and train till submission, nor is the boy - or any of them, in a matter of fact. I understand the urgency of the war and I agree that certain steps must be taken for the greater good, but do not forget that we are striving to build a better nation. Otherwise, we might as well surrender our arms to Lotso and forego to this painful endeavor."_

"I do not need a faceless coward to remind me of our purpose," the blocky man growled at the intercom.

" _Who is the greater coward, Drago? The one who hides his face to protect his men, or the one who hides in the safety of his District while others burst into flame?" came_ the blunt rebuttal. There was a pause, before MiM said in calmer manner, _"We have our own methods, President Bludvist, but we are on the same side. As long as you don't overstep your authority, I won't overstep mine."_

And without waiting for a dismissal, the holo-call was ended. The President scowled, but there was none to see the blue light reflecting off the dark creases of his scarred face. He gazed up at the dozen screens, before his hollowed eyes narrowed to the one of the dragon sanctuary. He moved his right palm over the interface, allowing him to zoom into it. He was treated to a view of the laboratory built into the side of the cavern wall. He watched as the professor and her most recently acquired assistant, the Haddock boy, cooed and cawed over some reptilian mutt that they were studying.

He frowned pointedly as the right hand clasped itself over its titanium double under his cloak.

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **Tada! The identity of the President of District 13 is finally revealed! Ladies and Gentlemen, I present, Drago Bludvist of HTTYYD 2! I've been saving this villain.**

 **The part where Merida goes above the ground to the woods is supposed to be like how Katniss in the books/movies was allowed to go out of District 13 as part of the terms of being the Mockingjay.**

 **Oh, Hiro's sick. Poor guy. And Elsa's got some armor. Dun-dun-dun!**

* * *

 **A/N: Hey there!**

 **This chapter was only edited by me, because my beta is currently unavailable. I apologize for grammar errors.**

 **Now, I'm sure some of you would have noticed that I haven't updated this story in a while (almost five months). The reason for this is that I've kind of hit a writer's block with this story. I know the end of the story and I know somethings that need to happen, but I'm still in the process of working out how to get there. As for why I've been continuing to upload some of my other stories, it's because I've bucket-loads of inspiration for them. It's not very fair, and I miss I could get the same inspiration for all my stories, but I don't. So… yeah. Also, every since college started, it's been harder for me to upload.**

 **Nonetheless, I really hope that I don't abandon this story. Reviews from you guys have really encouraged me to keep trying to churn out ideas and continuing trying to write, so I really appreciate all this you've done. I can't promise a new chapter according to a regular schedule anymore, but I'll continue to plan this story further so that I can hopefully someday end it of satisfactorily.**

 **Till next time people.**

 **Review. Ask Question. Critique.**


	10. Chapter 9: Whistle Down the Wind

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 9: Whistle Down the Wind

* * *

It hurt.

Yes, it definitely hurt. That burning in his chest. That unknown gnawing underneath his skin that threatened to consume him completely.

He scratched against it, trying to claw it out from under his sweater, but all he had in turn was a raw feeling on his chest and blood on his fingernails. It didn't help that the blizzard blowing around him was just making it worse. His hand, cold and frozen, struggled to reach for his hood, hoping that pulling it over his head might grant him a little warmth. While trudging around in ankle-deep snow, no end in sight in this desolate frozen wasteland, his heart sank and all he felt was hopelessness. He didn't know why he was here, or why it was frozen, or what he was looking for.

He was looking for something, right?

"I can help you find it," he heard a voice. It was soft and gentle, but there was something … dead about. Not deadly - just dead. As if the one who was speaking wasn't even alive.

He spun around, trying to find the source of the voice. He was startled to find that a large horse-drawn sleigh had manifested itself in front of him. Six snow-white horses, so white that it was almost blinding, were harnessed to the front of a frosted sleigh, where a young woman in fine robes was seated. When he had turned fully to gawk, she rose to her feet, gazing down back at him. The lad shrank back slightly as a chilling gust rattled his bones once more.

She was very beautiful, he had to admit. Her eyes were like sapphires and her hair like strands of gold. Her complexion was fair and smooth as if carved from polished marble, and her garments had the most intricate textures he had ever seen on clothes, glittering with her every gesture. She seemed very tall from where she was standing on the sleigh, and her presence itself seemed to tower over him in ways that he couldn't describe with words. Her lips, so red that surely they must be painted, moved ever so slightly as she said, dipping her head at him, "I can show you who you are."

"You know who I am?" For some reason, he realised that that must have been what he was looking for – what that has left him worn and fearful in this freezing weather. As he wrapped his arms around himself, he noted how she seemed almost impervious to the weather. She didn't budge at the way the snow fell on her hair, nor how the wind flapped against her long flowing skirt and her sleeves. If anything, she reveled in the frosty weather, smiling at the biting cold as it were an old friend.

Her immaculate features on her expressionless face didn't change as she stretched a hand towards him, "I can show you anything you want to know. For a price."

"What price?" He had to admit he was tempted. It was cold. It was painful. Though it didn't make sense to him, he felt that this knowledge was the cure to his ailment – to his circumstances, as if the pieces of information could mend the fissures of his mind.

"I'll tell you what it is if you step onto the sleigh and come with me," she told him, cold and haughty. Her lovely eyes were as devoid life as the precious stones by his mind had just compared them too.

He hesitated before taking her hand and letting her hoist him up, onto the platform of the sleigh. When they were standing face to face, he noticed the crystalline crown that sat over her forehead, gleaming menacingly down at him.

"Okay," he asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "So what's the price?"

She craned her slender, white neck forward, so close that they were almost touching. He found himself stiffening as her lips drew towards his ear, and whispered the answer that he did not expect, "A kiss."

He blinked. "A kiss?"

"Yes, that's all I ask," she said, drawing herself back, her lips curling up into what almost could be smile. "In return, I'll tell you all that you want to know."

"Well, okay." He's not sure how he felt about it. As far as he knew, he hadn't kissed anyone before – at least, from what he remembered – and she was pretty. He supposed that he wouldn't really mind – maybe. There was a part of his mind that was screaming at him not to do it, though for the life of him he couldn't imagine why.

Tapping his foot awkwardly on the sleigh platform, he then murmured, "So…what should I do? Do you want-"

She placed a finger over his lips, shushing him with a small smile, full of mystery and intrigue. With that, she leaned forward, pulling his chin towards her and sealed his mouth with hers.

And with that, he felt everything yanked out from him – his pain, his fear, yes, but also his strength, his courage, his feelings, his resolve-

 _-his very soul._

He could barely move when she drew back, grinning widely now, yet in her eyes he couldn't see a light to match her laughter, only a dark hollowness.

"You sad fool," she mocked him, her pearly white teeth seeming sharpen as while her pointed fingernails scratched him along his jaw. He couldn't answer, for his will to move had been sucked away. "You honestly think that I would give _you_ anything?"

Her laughter echoed over the howls of the winds as a chain of ice magically appeared, looping itself around his neck. He groaned at the unexpected weight, his knees buckling due to his lack of strength. He wanted to scream curses at her, wanted to rip against the chains and fight, but he had no control over his limbs. He could only watch in horror as she sat herself down on the sleight, pulling him on the chain towards her, menace oozing from her grin.

"Poor, poor Jack," she murmured with false pity as her freezing claw of a hand traced its finger over his chest. "You are so, so naïve."

And suddenly, he felt horrific pain shoot through him, so strong and so overwhelming that his vision was blinded with white agony and his senses numbed. He heard her cackle and he raised his head up just in time to see that in her cruel hand sat his bleeding heart, still attached to the vessels coming from his chest. He could feel his pulse quicken in fear and to his horror, he watched as the blood-soaked organ in her palm thud faster and faster.

Crowing triumphantly, the Snow Queen simpered tauntingly at him, the heart on her crimson-stained palm like a prize. With a jerk of her hand, he watched as ice crept over his heart, spreading like a virus across the dark veins, turning the beating thing into solid ice.

He screamed.

* * *

 **The Capitol Undergrounds**

 **Butterfly Room**

Yet another screech broke into the theatre. The workers behind the glass merely observed it with silence, comparing their notes against the vital signs and the running timer, then bowing their heads to record down the new data. They then raised their heads to watch as the white-haired subject locked onto the water chamber fought against his bonds, twisting about in his suspended spot and yelled intelligible phrases into the breathing mask glued to his face.

"So, what is he actually seeing?"

"His greatest fear," Pitch answered clinically, gaze fixed on the writhing boy in the behind the panels. "He doesn't remember much of his past though, so whatever he does remember will be wrung tight, ripped into shreds and turned from the inside out." He adjusted one of the control to increase the dosage of the iron argonite entering his veins through the tubes – just slightly, of course. A bit too much, and they might accidentally kill him.

"Interesting." Randall's reptilian eyes gleamed with unholy delight as he too scrutinised the sight. "It's as if you're creating a phobia within his mind from scratch."

"It's not a 'phobia', Dr. Boggs," the Head of the Undergrounds corrected, sounding a little annoyed. "A 'phobia' implies irrationality. He'll have plenty of reason to be afraid."

Another screamed blared through the speakers and the subject suddenly began to tremble rapidly in his binds, frost forming around the water as he did.

"Sedate him!" the leader of the monitoring team called out at once, and someone in the room hit the controls to fill his IV tubes with anaesthesia instead of the grainy black toxin.

Pitch sighed and rolled his eyes. The management team had become extremely cautious with handling Frost after the debacle that happened during his 'resurrection', which meant that they never allowed him to hit maximum power before knocking him out. He understood the need to be careful, of course, but the thrill-seeker in him would much rather that they pumped him with the highest does of iron argonite in him possible and let the show unfold. In due time, he supposed, he would have their protocol altered. If they were going to have any real breakthroughs, they needed to take some risks.

The door behind the scientist and the ex-Gamemaker slid open and a panicked figure emerged. "Mr. Black, sir!"

Pitch spun himself around, folding his robes towards himself as he did. "What is it?"

The panting staff member breathed out, "Sir – the President – he – he's-" gasped "-he's here. He wants updates on the Panacea."

Randall and Pitch glanced at each other silently. The latter then muttered to the purple-skinned scientist, "Under no circumstances is the President to know about Frost."

"Of course," Randall answered briskly, moving towards one of the panels to give new instructions. With that matter settled, Pitch followed the still huffing and puffing staff out of the room, ensuring that the isolated door was shut behind himself.

The staff member led him to down to a wide hallway, where the President, in a pale-purple suit with a daisy in his pocket and a walking stick under his arm, stood amongst a host of his directors and servants. All eyes went immediately to the Head of the Undergrounds as he arrived at the scene and Pitch hid away the irritation that he felt.

"President Lotso," he greeted the only one worth greeting in the horde. "Your visit is quite a surprise."

"By 'surprise', I imagine that you mean 'unwelcome'," the president spoke grimly, his cracked lips moving behind his bushy white beard. A sudden wheeze escaped his throat, followed by a strong coughing fit that required him to remove his handkerchief and place it over his mouth.

As the minute passed, Pitch's brow rose as he noted the reddish stain that appeared on the elderly politician's handkerchief. Lotso then removed it from his mouth, folding it up and stuffing in his front pocket. "It seems, Mr. President, that your visit is timely."

President Lotso harrumphed, while one of the lackeys standing around him said, "The President wants to see the Panacea."

Pitch smiled thinly. "Yes. Of course, he does." He waved to the crowd as if they were a bunch of visiting school children. "Come along, now, and keep close to me. Some changes have been made here since your last visit and the last thing I would want-" his grin held a touch of menacing intent "-is for our dear guests to get lost in the labyrinth of the Undergrounds."

Pitch took them through dark corridors of the underground, avoiding the prisons and the torture chambers knowing full well how … _delicate_ were the sanities of some of the party. Many Capitol officials, even those in close counsel of the President, were largely shielded from the brutalities of life and the rest of Panem. It was almost ridiculous.

He brought them down to the Garden of Eden, careful to send to send all the mutts guarding the horticulture site away before allowing the presidential party to follow him in – he didn't want any of those cake-eating bureaucrats to be eaten alive on his watch, did he? The accompanying officials were astonished at the sight of the glowing yellow flowers, all planted neatly in their rows behind the glass cases. Lotso himself found no amusement at the sight, demanding impatiently, "Where's the girl?"

"In a moment, Mr. President," Pitch answered, a twinge of annoyance in his tone as he spun around to face the group. Clearing his throat, he gestured towards the plantation with an air of pride. "As you know, the original _lilium panacea_ was destroyed some eighteen years ago. Since then, we had been attempting to clone it from its dead tissues." He tilted his head towards the patches of glowing lilies.

"Unfortunately, the success of the project was limited. By nature, the _lilium panacea_ was never designed to be a breeding flower. All the cloned subjects were never able to live as long as the original, and the healing power halved with each subsequent generation. Moreover, some of specimens even resulted in side effects." He noted that Lotso shoot a warning glare at him, but he brushed it off, continuing, "The good news is that after years of believing for years that the healing gene of the _lilium panacea_ was extinct, it has become apparent to us that the gene still exists, flourishing on in its new host."

Grinning like the cat who caught the cream, the pale man instructed the visiting party to follow him once again as he led them straight through the Garden, all the way up to the new complex that had been recently constructed. This complex had to be accessed by card, so Pitch swiped his own on the reader. The tight latches on the door were undone and drawn back, allowing the metal gates to pull open. All eyes turned heavenward as the large dome-shaped interior of this complex came in view. Dozens of glass cubicles hung suspended in the air, with researchers and scientists within them scurrying about their studies.

In the centre of the dome stood a tall metallic tower, with no visible doors around it and one tiny window near the top. Out of the window poured out a river of golden hair, gleaming bright under the ferocity of the white illumination. The large loops of hair were held off the ground by long metal prongs - spidery hand-like contraptions. Since there were many small cubicles, the many prongs had split the single stream of hair into several separate segments, poising each segment in front of the different study cubicles that presumably studied different parts of it. The splaying out of the yellow threads made the hair appear like an exploding star from the bottom-up view.

"As you would know from watching the 74th Hunger Games," Pitch went on with his explanation as the party gawked at the flaxen 'chandelier' hanging above them, "the mutant girl's healing powers comes from her hair, triggered by the words of a certain nursery rhyme."

He signalled to one of the nearby research cubicles and the attendant there pressed a button that played the song, _"Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine-"_

A golden glow flooded the hair, starting from the roots emerging from the window, down the loosely draped loops, then flowing all the way to the ends of the strands. The Presidential company gasped in awe as the grey-coloured dome was filled with ethereal light. Pitch himself flinched though – he was never too fond of bright things.

"The light from the hair itself has unique properties that allows it to heal wounds or illness at a seemingly instant rates." Pitch turned himself to face the President, whose expression was still severe despite the grand display. "I should think, Mr. President, that you would find that your cough has let up."

The elderly man in the purple suit frowned at the comment, but nonetheless massaged his neck and his expression changed into one that was thoughtful. Lotso tilted his head up to eye at the hair suspended in the air, and then asked, "Is this really the cure, then? The light from the hair of mutant girl?"

"Yes and no, Mr. President." This odd answer earned him puzzled looks from all – well, all except the president, who had started glaring at him darkly. "The light is able to cure all ailments – that is true. The site that had been healed however can obtain the same infection again as before, should it be exposed to the same thing that caused the illness in the first place. Forgive me for my bluntness, Mr. President -" Lotso's raised a bushy brow "-but age is a relentless disease that cannot be cured with a single dose."

"So are you suggesting that I come down here every day and expose myself to this 'healing light' like a sunbather?" the President snapped indignantly. The officials around drew back in trepidation, glancing warily at the tall, thin man for a solution.

Pitch however was not afraid. "If you want to live, Mr. President, then yes."

Lotso eyed the long metal tower, then at the numerous research labs above them. Finally, he asked, "Have you found a way to recreate the original _lilium panacea_ through the girl's genes?"

The Head of the Undergrounds was caught off guard by the question. "Well, no sir. We didn't see any benefit from that."

"If you could recreate the original flower, it would be much easier to extract the healing sap from it to make a serum," the President suggested.

"That's an excellent idea, Mr. President," one of the boot-licking members of the political crew piped with too much enthusiasm. "In that way, the healing serum can be mass-produced and carried on your person whenever you need it. You won't need to ever return to the Underground yourself. How wise you are, Mr. President!"

"I'm not just talking about a cure for myself," Lotso growled ferociously, silencing the chatty official at once. Hobbling towards the Head of the Underground, he said, "I want you to create two healing serums. One will be a pure one, made for my own use."

"And the other, Mr. President?" Pitch inquired, intrigued despite himself.

"The other is to be a lower grade version, to be used by Peacekeepers and guards." Lotso suddenly let out a heavy cough, pulling out his handkerchief again. When the attack passed, he continued in a wheezy voice, "You will have to improve it, of course, so that the healing effect from one dose can last long enough on the field."

The pieces clicked in play in his mind. "An invincible army of Peacekeepers. Excellent idea, Mr. President."

Lotso nodded, then coughed again. He cleared his throat while folding his napkin once more. "The rebellion, if it spreads, could outweigh us in numbers. A little added power never hurt."

"Of course, Mr. President."

As Pitch led to the president and his party out of the Garden's central complex, he noted the short, flaxen-haired Avox scrubbing the floor of observatory. Though his head was tipped down and his body hunched forward, it couldn't be denied that the dumb creature had heard everything that had been said.

* * *

 **Capitol**

Nights of the Silver City these day often begun with him half-drunk and ended with him waking up in cold sweat, nursing a terrible headache and his skin being smeared with someone else's bodily fluids. It was followed by him carefully getting off the mattress without awaken his bed partner, grabbing the clothes that had been folded by the Avoxes, putting them on and leaving the plush, fur-infested apartment as discretely as possible.

At four o'clock in the morning, the Capitol was mostly quiet. Most late night parties had been wrapped up roughly at three, when the liquor had been exhausted and the party-goners had been worn down by overindulgence. The only sounds he heard were wide-screen televisions around the buildings, playing reels of Capitol propaganda and other lies that kept the citizens in this artificial world of bread and circuses, while the rest of Panem paid for it.

There was a time that Flynn's job was incredibly easy. There was a time that all he needed to do was seduce his subjects and wheedle out the information - by any means necessary – then send it down the communication line. There was a time that Flynn only dreamed about money, glory and giving the Capitol its just, bloody desserts. In many ways, Flynn still hadn't changed.

But Eugene had. Well, not so much that Eugene had changed as that Eugene was starting to become a nuisance. Eugene had dreams – very simple dreams, but powerful dreams nonetheless. Dreams that Flynn would scoff and jeer at it, because Flynn was an obnoxious loaf that didn't care about anything but getting what he wanted. Eugene was nothing like that. He was an overly-reflective, stupidly vulnerable and irrationally principled young lad who just felt incredibly disgusted with himself as he walked down the street. There was a weird part of him that felt as if by doing he had always done before, he was being unfaithful.

But then he had to shake himself and question – be faithful to _who_? It wasn't like they were anything, and even they could have been, that opportunity had been lost.

He sometimes wished that she hadn't like Eugene better though, because it might have made it easier to lock Eugene away.

By right, it should be impossible for a citizen of District 8 to have a residence in the Capitol. However, when one had acquired as many 'patrons' as he had, there was bound to be some who would assuage their own guilt of buying him out by granting him lavish gifts. One of these gifts come in the form of a private apartment in the middle of town. It was very expensive and very coveted, and though he didn't like the circumstances that placed it in his possession, it was his safe haven from the sensory assault all over the Capitol.

He took the elevator up to his floor, stepping on the carpeted coverings and heading to the door marked with familiar number. He slid his card into the door and stepped in, the lights flickering on upon detecting his movement. He was about to head to the bathroom when he noted the kitchen lights were lit. Upon entering that room, he was greeted by the sight of apple cores, orange skins and cherry pits littered all over the kitchen counter. There was a small, purplish shape of the reptile hovering over a basket of half-eaten watermelon.

Eugene let out an amused snort, even smiling slightly. "You do realize that I can see you, right?"

He heard clicking sound as a red tongue stuck out of the camouflaging creature returned back to its normal green shade. Pascal made a hiss noise as he crawled back down the handle of basket, down to the unfinished fruit and resumed his happy gluttony.

Eugene just shook his head at him. "You're going to get really sick one or these days."

The chameleon ignored him, absorbed in stuffing as much of the juicy red chunks in his mouth as possible.

"You're might even die from it."

Still no change in behaviour.

"And then in order for me to preserve your memory, I'll have to turn you into a taxidermy thingy. That, or I could the Avoxes to whip you up in a dish. I'm sure chameleon tastes interesting."

Finally, Pascal paused the gorging fest to glare at the man, eyes narrowed and reptilian lips downturned in disapproval, almost as if he was warning, _'You better sleep with ear plugs tonight.'_

Eugene waved the threat away, telling him, "I'm gonna get a bath, and once I'm done, I'm going to give you one too."

The reptile's eyes went as wide as saucers, jaw-dropped, the chunk of fruit in mouth falling out as he did.

The man chuckled as he left the petrified creature on the kitchen shelf, heading to the bathroom with a smile on his face. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, the temporal mirth had died and he was back to his sombre, moody self.

He spent a long time under the shower, not because he enjoyed fiddling with the different functions provided the buttons on the panel, but because he felt an irrational need to scrub every single inch of himself clean. He tried to shove off the feelings of discomfort, tried beat out the tension in his shoulders. But his stomach still continued to churn uneasily. He could put it down as the after effects of drinking, but he was sober enough to know when he was lying to himself.

After drying himself off, he changed into his new clothes – also a gift from patron number who-knows-what-by-now – and headed for the kitchen, used clothes tucked under his arm. Along the way, he passed the rubbish chute, where he intended to dump all of the now-soiled fabrics. Had it been any other citizen of District 8, it would sacrilege to dispose so careless of garments that had been so carefully and painfully made by their own hands. But in the Capitol, one did as Capitol people did, and wastage was a practice that citizens of the Silver City were especially proud of.

Just as he was about throw in the fancy vest that went with the dress shirt, Eugene heard a crinkle in the pocket. Pausing, he reached into the pocket and found a small slip of paper. Unfolding it, his eyes widened. Of course, one of the Avoxes from his last patron's home must have slipped it in there when they folded up his clothes. And to think he almost threw it away!

He searched the rest of the clothes for any other message, but there was nothing else. It was only this small slip of paper, with a message encoded in symbols.

He returned to the kitchen, where Pascal had finally decided to not to eat himself to death and now lolled listlessly onto of the saltshaker. Eugene sat himself down on the table near the counter and grabbed the pen that had been thrown down there. He immediately began decoding the symbols, writing down the actual message in the space under the words. When the entirety of the text had been revealed, he lifted the sheet up, studying it and checking back against the symbols to ensure that what he had deciphered was accurate. He then read the message itself, and just the thought of it alone sent shivers down his spine.

"Got a message to pass down," he told the reptile, who only lifted its head up curiously toward him. Eugene fingered the sheet anxiously, contours of his handsome face warped with chagrin. "This could ruin everything."

He went back to his bedroom to get his communicator and in his mind, he rewrote the message, but this time using a different set of symbols. He keyed these symbols into the communicator and had them sent to the required address. He wasn't sure if the communication network that the last District 3 victor had installed was as secure as she claimed it would be, but there was no choice. Any other route of messaging would be too slow. Time was not on their side anymore.

That thought brought to mind an odd line. He wasn't sure where he had heard it. All he knew was that it was a part of that song, how did it go - _"Make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine."_

There was something rapping against the back of his head, something that he felt he ought to remember after reading the message. He ran a hand through his hair, clenching his teeth as he searched his thoughts, trying to place why the idea of a cure of for all illnesses should be something important to him.

And the verses continued to ring in the backdrop, _"Heal what has been hurt, change the fate's design_ _-"_

It was only when he walked over to his half-packed suitcase did he start putting the pieces together. In the messy interior of the case, he spotted the small scroll that he had started carrying with him wherever he went. Taking it in his hand, he unrolled it, straightening it out carefully. The gleaming image of painted sun burned in his brain as his mind whirled in confusion.

" _-save what has been lost-"_

He let out a strangled exhale as the truth of the matter overwhelmed him, like a mighty tide crashing over the shores in an impending tsunami.

" _-Bring back what once my mine-"_

He ran back to kitchen, breathless and panting. The chameleon was startled out of his feasting stupor, blinking at him in surprise. Incoherence tied knots with his tongue and all he could breathe out a name - "Rapunzel."

" _-what once was mine."_

* * *

 **District 5**

Elinor was checking up the accounts in the study when she heard a light tapping on the door frame. "'m I bothering you, lass?"

She gazed up towards her husband, who was fidgeting with his hands like a child waiting for rebuke by the teacher in a schoolhouse. The woman let out a long sigh, brushing away her waves behind her ear. There had been a time where Fergus automatically sit himself next to her, bat her hand away and scoop the locks back himself while quipping a comparison of her mousy brown strands to tiny rivers of chocolate. She would then raise a brow at him and then he would shrug and say, "What? Chocolate's an excellent colour." Recent events however had created a gap between the couple and even being in the same room felt a little strange.

It wasn't as if one had lost more than the other – she was their only daughter, after all. But perhaps one knowing that she was safe – though not necessarily well – and the other thinking she had died in the revolting Games of the Capitol was enough to dig a crevice between them.

"Well, I could spare a moment," she began crisply, then checked herself. For all his headstrong folly, Fergus didn't have the privilege of knowing what happened to Merida as she did, and, goodness how had the deception wounded him. Softening her tone, Elinor said, "What is it?"

The burly redheaded man hesitated as he stepped into the study – a place that he had scarcely been in over the last seven months. His interest in dealing with Capitol relations and keeping accounts of their electricity production had waned with his grief, and there were moments that Elinor considered breaching protocol if only to restore him to his former self. But she knew that though a devoted husband and dedicated father, he was not one who could keep secrets. In fact, he would probably have it spread over all the District, so that all it citizens would know of District 13 and have hope.

But hope was flame that had to be tampered - _controlled_. It could be a beacon to the desolate, but it was also a target for the enemy. The more the rebellion lashed out, the harder the Capitol would retaliate, and the flames could very well be snuffed there and then. Who knows when they might get a spark again? They had to time this right, and now was not the right time.

That, unfortunately, was where Fergus disagreed with her. "We're doing it. Tonight."

Her chest seized. She understood perfectly what he had referred to. For all his sneaking arounds and discrete meetings, there was nothing he could really hide from her. She was known after all for her keen sight and her sharp mind, and it wasn't difficult to put two and two together.

Dropping her pen, she rose to her feet, looking at him straight in the eye, saying, "You are leading them into a massacre."

"It's either I lead them, or they find another to do it," was his gruff reply. She could sense a wavering in his tone. Though he was a full head taller than her, her husband couldn't match her in resolve. No surprise then that she won almost every argument. But this time, his words didn't trail off into a broken, unsure question. He held his ground, still meeting her gaze. "The people want justice, Elinor. Who am I to deny it of them, after what the Capitol has done to us?"

"It will come to nothing," she retorted darkly, folding her arms. "The Capitol has hovercrafts, manpower, weapons and technology. What do we have?

"The stocks, the chains, the public executions," Fergus ranted on as if she had not spoken, "the break-backing labour, the impossible quotas - the Capitol has taken everything from us."

"If you do not be careful, they'll take our lives too!" the woman protested urgently, moving around the table to stand by her husband's side. "Have you considered what they might do to _us_? To our children?"

"'Linor,-" his thick brows furrowed together, "-once the boys are old enough for reaping, who can say if the Capitol won't take them from us then?"

She hated to admit that he had caught her off guard – after all, she was supposed to be the smarter of the two of them. She was supposed to be the visionary, knowing where they were going, why and how. If she played her cards right, her boys might never need to see the Games. But then, there were circumstances that she could never control. After all, she had never expected her own daughter to enter the Games.

"Fire's catching, lass," he told her, softly. His rough hand caressed her cheek with a gentleness that made this all the more bitter. He was never as good as words as she, perhaps, but she knew that he meant the few that he did say. Strike when the iron's hot. Strike when wounds were stinging and blood was boiling. Strike when anger masked fear and hope masked wisdom. Strike, before the Capitol lashed them back into their cages.

Elinor believed in all this, but it didn't change that the time was _not right._

"Call this off – this madness," she pleaded him, and pleading was something she rarely did. It was an act of weakness, and though she was the very essence of feminine grace, Elinor never begged for anything if she could help it. She won by other ways – persuasion, tact, logic and patience. However, any of those, or even all of them combined, were not going to help her now. She reached for his hands, gripping onto it tight to let him know to true extent of her concern – her fear. "If it's with your power, then please, Fergus-" she shook her head wildly, her voice breaking "-call off the fight."

He hesitated. "I can't, Elinor. The men are already stationed at their posts. They've gotten the necessary weapons. They're just waiting the signal."

"There will be another time to fight, I promise." Her desperation was evident in her tone. "There will be another time for the people rise up against the Capitol, but that time is not now. Fergus, won't you listen to me about this?"

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, but did not look at her in the eye. "The signal will be obvious enough. When that happens, you should take the boys to the shelter." He clearly referred to the underground safe room they had built into the manor a few years ago, without the knowledge of the Peacekeepers. Fergus had claimed then it was for safety in case of a power plant explosion, but now, it was clear that it had other purposes. "Don't come out till I come back and find y'all."

"You mean, _if_ you come back," Elinor retorted crossly, pulling herself away roughly and spinning from him. She hoped that the guilt would weight him down, that he would, for her sake, pause and rethink his actions.

She headed back to the table, posture still straight and rigid as she pulled the chair back and sat herself down. In the corner of her vision, she saw his hulking figure droop a little and she felt a twinge of victorious spite rock through her core. But then, as she noted how he silently turned away, disappearing back down the door, the temporary pleasure receded and she was left with only dread and heartache for company.

Slouching back into the hard wooden chair, Elinor let out a long exhale. Her gaze turned forward, to the tapestry piece hanging by the bookcase. She had completed her work on it some two weeks after the Games had ended. It depicted the night sky, with constellation shapes and their corresponding legends woven in a circular fashion. It was possibly one of the most difficult tapestries she had ever done, and she had to admit it was the one she liked the least. Yet, she did not have it removed from the office.

The telephone rang, breaking her reverie. Drawing herself up straight and taking in a deep breath, she picked up the receiver, placing it against her ear. In an even tone that she had practiced all her life, Elinor spoke, "Dunbroch manor. Elinor Dunbroch speaking."

" _It's a dark night out there, isn't it, Mrs. Dunbroch?"_ the familiar voice on the other said impassively, but there was an underlying edge of tension behind it – something that warned her of urgency.

"Is it?" was her simple answer, not revealing her concerns in her speech.

" _Would be nice to have moon out, but I reckon with how things are going, Auriga might be riding out that chariot of his too soon and before we know it, the sun will rise,"_ came the cryptic reply.

Her eyes narrowed as she processed the words, scrambling for a bit of writing paper and a pen, holding the receiver between her shoulder and the side of her jaw. "Are there any coordinates that you have of where I might still be able to see the Columba?"

" _I doubt you'd stand a chance on the Columba, but I'll give you the coordinates anyway."_ The voice was soft and breathless, as if it was afraid of being heard.

So Elinor took down the relevant symbols given to her over the line and hung up. She then took up the scrap paper and went over to the tapestry of the constellations. Pushing it aside, she took a look at the array of books that were hidden behind it. When asked, she had said that she covered those books with the tapestry because she wanted to prevent them from being exposed to sunlight. But another reason was simply because she didn't want attention to be drawn to them – or at least, a few of them.

She removed a leather-bound volume titled _'Effectiveness of Hydroelectric Power and Other Technical Conundrums'_ and flipped it opened to page forty-five. Finding the right page, she brought it over to her desk and the written symbols next to the page. Along the borders of the paragraph was imprinted the legend for the symbols, and she used it to decipher the message that had been passed as coordinates. When she had it all unravelled, Elinor read the message thoroughly and found her own heart thumping in anxiousness.

This piece of news was disturbing, to say the least.

She fingered with the slip of paper for a moment, before deciding that she had better pass it on. She returned the book on hydroelectrics back to the shelf behind the tapestry, then removed the volume titled, _'Modes of Transport and its Electrical Usage'_. She flipped through it, this time to page fifty-six, where the gaps between words also had a new set of codes and symbols printed. She encoded the message with the new cryptogram, making sure that her actions were hasty and swift. She quickly then dialled a number on the phone, holding the receiver against her ear. In a few seconds, it was answered by another familiar voice, and she calmly passed the cipher on, making sure to riddle it in between mindless chatter about types of sunsets and the best autumn wear.

After Elinor put down the receiver, she opened a drawer at her desk and removed a box of matches. Removing one, she quickly struck it against the splint, allowing it to burst into flame. She then lifted the scrap paper up and set it aflame, allowing it to burn a little before dropping it into the metal trash bin. She then picked up ' _Modes of Transport and its Electrical Usage'_ to return it to the shelf. She stood there for a while, deciding what the best course of action could be. Pressing her lips together in thought, she then pulled on one last book on the shelf.

Its cover read, _'_ _The Man in the Moon, and Other Fairy Tales._ _'_

* * *

 **District 10**

Nicholas St. North had a gift with craft.

Most victors at some point post-victory were expected to pick up a hobby that they would show off to the media crew from the Capitol when they came. Instead of sheer shearing, or horse-breeding, or anything remotely related to the husbandry business that District 10 was supposedly famed for, North chose his to be the art of making things.

Fresh out of the Games, dark thoughts had haunted his every moment and he had learned to purge them with the work of his hands. It had started out as small wooden figures, carved with an apple knife and used as paper weights. However, hard years of being a mentor to tributes who never came back had given him more than enough motivation to refine his skill. He had explored various mediums, from wax to copper to plastic and even glass. It was a way to pass the time, and a way to vent his frustration.

At first, he just made toys. His own memories of his childhood were desolate and grim, and he had no wish for future generations to live in the same way that he did. At every opportunity he could, he would present one of his many works of art to the younglings of his town and nothing brought him joy as much as watching them hug the tin soldiers, the dolls, the stuffed animals and the boats to their chests as their dusty feet walked them from school to the pastures.

That joy however was temporary. Children grew up, and the imagination, creativity and wonder that the toys gave them was not strong enough to sustain them through their adolescence years. Some grew bitter while others just grew resigned. A precious few – whose faces stayed ingrained in his mind even as time passed – had the misfortune of having their names drawn from the Reaping Bowl, and the toys that he had made for them followed them to their graves.

Not all children welcomed his gifts though. Aster Bunnymund, back when he was sullen teenager, had sneered all the toys that he had been offered. He had had no use for playtime, imagination or wonder. Since the time when he was a lad, Bunnymund had been a serious fellow, obsessed with growing up and learning how to keep the pens and the coops. He never so much as looked at North until the day the elder craftsman presented him with a wooden boomerang.

It was meant to be a toy – a trifle to throw and catch for amusement. But of course the rebellious, cynical Bunnymund would turn it into a weapon. He got in trouble several times in during his teen years when the wooden projectiles broke the street lamps and tore down electrical wires. After getting lashed at the stocks, the boy would go, with bandages, down North's house to ask for another boomerang. Sometime later, North got tired of just giving them to him and brought him into his home, where he taught the lad how the basic principles of aerodynamics and wood-craft.

The younger man had absorbed all this knowledge like a sponge. Come that dreadful day where his own name had been reaped from the bowl, Bunny had no fear. In the arena, he had carved the wooden weapons like North had taught him, with perfect slopes and angles. No tribute stood a chance against his deadly strikes.

Since Bunnymund's own victorious return, the two of them had in a way become allies. Not quite friends, for they didn't really like each other. Not quite mentor and mentee either, because Bunny rarely heeded North's advice and North rarely liked advising him, considering his stubbornness. But their talents with inventing brought them together in the secret workshop underneath North's home often enough. There, they could retreat from the eyes of the Peacekeepers to make whatever their heart desired.

This did not mean there was no conflict, of course.

"I told you not to touch my stuff! Look at it!" Bunnymund – the grouchy, grey-haired man, not the grouchy, pimple-faced teen – was waving madly at his egg-shaped contraptions. For the life of him, North still had no idea what they were for. "The calibrations are totally off! The wiring is whacked!"

"For the last time, Bunny, -" the elder man himself was struggling to hold his temper, "-I do not touch with your things!"

"Oh, really?" The man grabbed the elbow wrench off its hook on the wall, then the pliers next to it. He strolled back to his work table and picked up the metal mask that lay there. "What about that time you tried to – quoting you – _'fix'_ my boomerangs?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," North snapped while he hammered into the wooden boards of the metallic engine, slamming down on the nails in time with his words, "-they were the ugliest-" _plunk_ "-shade-" _plunk!_ "-of blue I had ever seen."

"I didn't ask for your opinion!" Bunnymund scowled at him before unscrewing the top cap off his egg-shaped devices. "And I like blue. Red's disgusting."

"Well, you have terrible taste in designing," North declared while climbing out of the tangled scaffold that held his creation in place, "just like the way you designed your tattoos."

The younger man was clearly provoked. Raising up his elbow wrench, he waved it like a sabre. "They are _warrior marks._ "

North made a scoffing sound as he picked up the welding torch. "They are stupid."

"You're stupid!"

This was a typical example of conversations that would happen between the two fully-grown, way-past middle-age, victors and sometimes it would go for hours. This time however it was interrupted by the ringing of the bell on the wall.

Both men paused their work, staring at the ringing bell. It was connected to the bell that hung upstairs outside the front door, so that they could hear it when visitors came by. This was important, just in case those visitors happened to wearing white armour, bearing firearms and a search warrant from the Capitol.

Finally, the silence was broken by Bunnymund. "You should answer it."

North sighed as he set the welding torch down. With heavy steps, he made his way to the narrow staircase that lead above ground, rolling his grease-covered sleeves down as he did. When arrived back onto the first floor, he was careful to close the trap door and cover it with rug. Making sure that the opening was out of sight, he made his way from the study room down to the living room, then into the entrance hall. All of his bulky frame was tensed up as he approached the front door. Cracking his knuckles, just in case, he undid the lock and pulled on the knob.

There were no Peacekeepers there – thank goodness. He had been, as they say, living on the edge of his seat ever since the riot during the Games. His bullet wound had largely healed itself, but it still smarted every time he moved his shoulder in the wrong way.

And here was the one he caught the bullet for, standing at the door with a basket under her arm.

"Hello," the girl at the door said. She had the saddest eyes North had ever seen, with the pale cheeks and smileless lips. If she wasn't standing perfectly straight and balancing a heavy basket in her arms, he would have thought her ill. "Are you-" she glanced down at a small slip in her hand "-Mr. St. North?"

Of course, she probably didn't remember him. She was just a child, after all, and the events of the riot at District 10 town square must have been traumatising enough. Even if she could remember, she would probably not want to remember.

"I am, _Lastochka_ ," he told her gently, bending himself down to her height as not to scare her. "How can I help you?"

"Ma told me to bring you your laundry," the girl said, wrinkling her nose at him as she held out the basket. When his gaze dipped down, he then spotted the stack of clothes all rolled and packed neatly inside the thatch-made carrier. "And I'm Emma, not La-Last-whatever that was."

" _Lastochka_ ," he corrected her patiently. "I know it is not your name. _Lastochka_ just means 'little bird'. If I had upset you by calling you that, I apologise."

"Oh, -" the discomfort in the girl's expression disappeared, replaced with thoughtfulness. "It would be nice to be a bird, I suppose," she mused aloud as he took the basket from her hands, flapping her arms as she did, as if imagining herself as a feathered creature in the sky.

That action earned a gruff chuckle from North. "Well, if you were a bird, where you fly to?"

"Wherever Jack is," was her prompt reply, and it was like a stab to the heart.

He had recognised her as the little girl who had accidentally started a riot at the Justice Building, but only now did it dawn on him that she was related to young male tribute of the last Games. The brown hair and brown eyes – how he could miss it?

She must have noticed the way he looked at her, because she added, "I'm not sure where he is, but I think he's really scared right now."

"Of course," was all that North could say. He didn't know to break the bad news to her, and decided that it wasn't really his duty to. Rising back to his feet, he pushed the door open. "Would you like to come inside for some cookies?"

The girl glanced down the hallway behind him, then said hesitantly, "I think Ma wants me to go back home to help."

North thought of the desolate house in the middle of fields and said, "Well, you can just have a cookie and hurry yourself home after."

The girl twisted her hands together, then nodded.

Closing the door behind them, North led her to dining room and let her sit on the plush chairs surrounding the dining table, where she stroked the fur-covered covering of the chairs with curiosity. Within seconds, she was ogling at the shelf across the table. It was no wonder, for there he had stacked his favourite inventions – toys.

"Do you like them?" North was pleased that they had captured her interest. He set the cookie jar in front of her. The girl however didn't look at it at all, leaping of her seat and walking towards the shelf of toys with her mouth hanging open. The old man was not offended, following after her.

Picking up a stuffed doll from the higher shelves, North brought it down to her so that she could see it. "This is Little Miss Muffet." He let her reach out a touch the dainty little apron and the lacy dress. "If you know the story, she saw sat-"

"-on a tuffet, eating her curd and whey," the girl finished softly for him, touching the woollen hand of the doll and pressing it between her fingers. Glancing up at him, she said, still looking incredibly serious, "Jack told me the story. I know." She glanced back at the shelf, pointing up. "Is that the spider that sat down beside her?"

"Well, yes." He was surprised by her astute observation. He unhooked the clay spider from the pin that it was hanging off from, bringing it down so that she could hold it in her hands. She examined critically, turning the black-painted arachnid with focus. "I will be honest - it was much easier making the spider. Little Miss Muffet's buttons-" he gestured to the glassy-buttons on the doll's dress "-refused to stay on."

Emma, as she called herself, peered up at him with wide eyes. "You made these?"

He nodded, trying to look modest and failing entirely. He was too proud of his works.

She gasped, covering her mouth with the hand that wasn't holding the spider. "You're a toymaker."

"In a way, I am," he confirmed, taking up another toy to show her. "This one's a reindeer. I call him Dancer. He enjoys parties. And this one-" he picked up another matching wooden figure "-he's his brother, Prancer. Proud fellow, this one is. Likes to show off."

"Oh." The girl nodded, staring at the two figure. He sat them down so that he could show her others.

"This tiny fella' the Leprechaun," he showed her a painted ceramic shape, "-brings you good luck. Here this monkey-" he lifted up a stuffed primate, who was standing on hind legs and holding a staff with his front paws "-is a fierce warrior. He's mischievous, but has a good heart. Here is a nest of fairies-" her eyes widened particularly at the word 'fairies' "-dancing over the water. Careful," he told her as she picked up the glass figurines to examine them. "These critters are fragile folk."

He found a small metal toy, melded into the shape of a bird. It was one of the first toys that he had ever tried making. The child that he had made it for however passed away from sickness before he could ever give it, and it had since then stayed on the display shelf. It was clever little contraption, with the beak of the bird pointed down and the wings of the bird weighted such that if one balanced the bird's beak on his finger, the wings of the bird would prop up, making it look like the creature was actually flying.

"This one is you," he said to the girl, bringing her attention away from the fairies. She watched, fascinated, as little metal toy bounced up and down on the tip of his finger. "A little bird. A little _lastochka_."

He placed it in her hand, showing her how to balance it on her own finger. Delight stretched over her features as she began walking around the dining room, moving her finger up and down, leading the metal bird to a merry flight in the air.

North smiled as he watched her, only to have it interrupt with a clang and - "NORTH!"

Bunnymund had flung himself into the dining room, alarm etch on every inch of his face. His unexpected entrance however caused the girl to freeze where she was, fearful. Bunnymund blinked at her, himself petrified, just managing to utter, "Oh. You."

The girl swallowed, not quite certain what was going on. North, however, reassured her with a firm pat on her shoulder. "Don't you worry, _lastochka_." His voice was kind. "Why not have some cookies?" Seeing her worried expression, he added, "Choose the toy you like best, eh? I will let you bring it home."

Emma nodded, returning to the toy shelf and started examining the crafts down there. North then spun around and said to Bunnymund in a low voice, "What?"

The younger man jerked his head towards the study, answering, "We've got incoming messages."

Both of them hurried back to the underground workshop, where a crackling fizz was coming from the small radio that they had there.

"I don't know this code so I couldn't decipher the message," he told North as the large man sat himself in front of the array of wires and plugs. "I just took the call and wrote it down. It's from District 8."

North looked at the words that the other man had taken down, before furiously starting to decode each one. "It's about District 5," he said at last. "They're rebelled."

"They what?" Bunnymund was astounded. "But it's too early for that! Are they crazy?"

"Shush!" North batted him away. "You ruin my concentration." He returned to deciphering the message, whistling in surprise. "They've succeeded in taking over the Justice Building and the Peacekeeping barracks, with at least half the town under their rule."

"What?" The other man craned his neck forward, staring at the slip even though he didn't know how to read it. "How?"

"No details here," North answered, squinting at the sheet just as the crackling from the radio suddenly burst into sound. A new message was ready.

Bunnymund took the headset and put it on, answering it quickly, "This is the North Pole." He went silent, before grabbing the note pad and pen, starting to write furiously while his brows furrowed in concentration. "Uh, huh. Noted." And then he shoved the notepad to North.

The older man immediately got to work, shuffling through all the ciphers he had in his mind until he thought of the correct one. He immediately began to unravel the puzzle, deciphering the message fully just as Bunnymund signed off from the exchange.

"This one's from District 9," he told North. "Just a message to Thirteen."

"I guessed as much," North murmured, already furiously wrapping the message in a new set of codes. He then turned some dials on the board, swapping around the appropriate plugs and taking the headset from Bunnymund.

Before he could put through his call, there was a buzzing sound again – but this time, not from the radio. Both men looked at each, then at the small screen that sat on the adjacent table. They moved to where the screen was. North typed in the passcode into the keypad and the black screen lit up, showing an image of a white circle on a blue backdrop. North and Bunnymund instinctively leaned forward to the screen, though there was nothing much to see on it.

North spoke first, "Manny?"

" _It's good to see that you are well, North. I see that you have recovered since our last conference,"_ the mechanical voice had an odd measure of warmth in it. _"I trust you and Bunnymund have been progressing towards our goal?"_

"We're a little short of resources – physical and manpower," Bunnymund cut in before North could say anything. North frowned at him, but the younger man was unrepentant. "What? Manny should know the truth."

" _I agree,"_ MiM conceded. _"Why is there a lacking on manpower though? From what I understood, District 10 people have no love for the Capitol."_

"The anger is there, yes, but there's no rallying point," the grey-haired man told his superior. "The people here don't have a strong leader like District 5. Lots of folks are scattered far and wide across the fields. It's harder to inspire communal thoughts of revolution. We need something to get behind. There's the 74th Games, yes, but there was seven months ago. There needs to be an event, a trigger, a-"

" _-symbol?"_ MiM suggested.

"That would be handy, I reckon." Bunnymund nodded.

" _Well, you gentlemen continue with your preparations. Look out for recruits to our cause. Seek new material sources. I will try to help you find your … symbol."_ With that, the screen went blue, before turning black.

"Well, that was unhelpful," the younger man remarked.

North glared up at him. "Could you be less cynical?"

"If I wasn't myself, I suppose I could be." Unapologetically, Bunnymund took the headset near the radio, turning the dials and changing the plugs. He glanced at the message they had received from District 9, which North had translated into the new cipher and utter a string of swear words before the connection to Eleven went through.

As the younger man began speaking to the fellow on the other line, the older man pushed himself off the seat, stroking his beard as he tried to remember what it was he wanted to do. He was about to reach for the welding torch when he remembered the young guest he had upstairs. Well, he had best go and see to her before she saw something that she wasn't supposed to see.

When North climbed back above ground, closing the trapdoor tight and covering it up once again, he headed to the dining room, calling out, "Little _lastochka_ , where are-?"

He cut himself off.

In dining room stood, three Peacekeepers, one of which he recognised to be the Head Peacekeepers of the District. There was no sign of the girl anywhere. When he shifted his gaze to the window, though, he did see a small shape darting away from the house and a relief washed over him. She must have seen the Peacekeepers coming and snuck off. Smart _lastochka_.

"Nicholas St. North." The Head Peacekeeper brought his attention back to his present situation by rapping his knuckles against the dining table. The grim-looking soldier eyed him levelly, stating simply, "We've detected a number of odd signals emanating from this house."

A confused sound rumbled from the back of his throat as he pulled an expression of bewilderment. "I do not understand what you mean."

"We have intercepted several messages going to and leaving this place," another Peacekeeper put in, tone dripping with threat. He placed a slip of paper with symbols on it – symbols that undoubtedly were the encrypted messaged that had been passed along over the last few months. "Perhaps you would like to tell us what it says."

North gazed down at the coded texts, then up at the Peacekeeper who had placed it there.

And then he swung his elbow into the helmet of the soldier right next to him, throwing his head back and distracting him long enough for North to grab the gun in his hand. His big hands found the handle and the trigger. Before the two remaining soldiers could raise their arms at him, he had already shot one in the chest, throwing his body back against the toy shelf. The last armed guard, which was the Head Peacekeeper, was much faster though, and managed to punch a bullet in his ribs before North strike.

The big man grunted at the pain, staggering back as red liquid trickled down his shirt. Against his own will, his weapon slipped from his grasp and his will over was lost, making him collapse to the ground. The soldier that he had struck earlier had recovered enough to grab his arms and pin him down. North struggled and with his strength he could have pushed the soldier off, but he felt a metal muzzle pressed against his throat and he stopped.

"Nicholas St. North," the Head Peacekeeper sneered at him, crouching down while to press the muzzle harder, "you are under arrest for treason, illicit activity and conspiring against the Capitol."

"Kill me then," the large man growled at the guard. "Surely that's what I deserve."

"Hardly," his captor spat at him, drawing himself back up but still pointing the gun at him. "You will be taken to Capitol for questioning. No doubt there are more of you." Even at his angle, North could see the shifting figures coming through his front door and hear the heavy footsteps echoing through the halls of his house. He heard the Head Peacekeeper bark at his subordinates, "Search the house for a communication device. The signals have to be coming from somewhere."

North's forehead wrinkled as he pondered quickly. If they searched the place thoroughly enough, it would only be a matter of time before they found the trapdoor, and Bunnymund too. They would find the maps and the inventions, as well as the books with the codes. All that they've been working on would fall apart and the rising rebellion would be exposed.

He would not allow this.

Now, one advantage that North had over the unwelcome intruders of his home was that he had built it from his own hands. He knew every nook and cranny, every screw and bolt. He knew that the underground workshop was padded with steel-reinforcement that made it essentially bomb-proof. He also knew that on the very top of the toy shelf, he had kept a number of his earliest, more destructive inventions.

With one sudden move, the big man shoved himself back, knocking off the guard that was holding him down and setting himself free. Before the Head Peacekeeper could shoot him, North had kicked him in the shin, forcing him to fall back. Their howls of pain caused their comrades at other parts of the house to come running over. The old man, surprisingly nimble for his age, leapt over the collapsed soldier and avoided a jab that was swung at him. He hissed when his wound smarted, and it was with great difficult that he had managed to reach for a metal canister on the shelf.

"Drop that now!" he heard one of the Peacekeepers running from the kitchen yell, followed by the cocking of weapons. "Put your hands in the air and drop that now!"

With his thumb, North moved the small slide along the side of the canister, making the light on its cap start to blink. He spun to face them, letting the canister fall from his hand as he did. The canister hit the ground, and the small glass tube inside it cracked, exposing the red liquid to air.

He smirked darkly at the encroaching soldiers. "Ho, ho, ho."

The world around them abruptly burst into flames.

* * *

She dashed as fast as she could, her heart racing way faster than her feet could.

"Quickly now, behind that tree!" her flying companion shouted to her as they entered the tree-covered section of the field. "We can't let the white coats see us!"

Emma did as she was told, huddling behind the large trunk and gasping, trying to catch her breath. She realized that she was clenching her fist at that moment, so she hastily opened her hand, peering down worriedly at the little creature she held there. "Are you alright, Lastochka?"

The little metal bird hopped a bit around her palm, trying to get a feel of its long unused legs. "Feeling a bit stiff here and there, but-" it flapped it metal-lined wings curiously "- I say, ain't that a sight? Didn't know I could do that."

"Hush," the fairy hissed at them. She was squatting by their side, hand on the hilt of her golden sword. Her chin was lifted above the tall grassy cover, her purple eyes darting back and forth. Cautiously, she then waved at Emma to stand. "They didn't see you. Well done."

"But I don't understand, Tooth Fairy," the girl said, cupping her hands together as the toy robin hopped back and forth on her palm, testing its wings experimentally. "Why were they there?"

"What other reasons can there be for bad men to go to the house of a good man, if only to attack him?" the fairy answered, grasping firmly on her hand and tugging her through the forest, back in the direction of her home. Her expression was unhappy. "Poor man."

"Then we should go back and help him," Emma said, stopping her steps suddenly and looking back at the house. "They'll hurt him!"

"There's nothing we can do right now, Emma," the Tooth Fairy continued to pull her away, fighting against her yanking arm. "You're not strong enough to face them yet. Besides, if you're gone, who's going to find Jack?"

The sober reminder was enough to quash her urge to run back to the house and Emma let her wing-batting friend drag her through the thicket of the forest. No sooner did they retreat in the shade did they suddenly hear a loud 'BOOM!' mixed with the sound of shattering wood and exploding bricks.

Emma watched as Tooth's head jerked sharply back to the place from which they had come. She herself could not see over the leafy overhangs and the shrubs, so she asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing," the fairy said, from which Emma knew that it wasn't just nothing.

"Tell me," she insisted.

The feathered creature grimaced, then told her, "The house – it's on fire now."

"We should go back." She took a step in that direction.

"No!" The fairy stopped her immediately. "More Peacekeepers would be going there soon. You'll only get in trouble." Her had twisted back to the rising smoke. "I will go and see if there's anything I can do. Hurry home, Emma." She unsheathed her sword, already poised to strike. "Take good care of your new friend."

With that said, the Tooth Fairy took to the air, zooming back to the burning house. Emma hesitated, then decided that this time she would obey. If the Tooth Fairy was right, at this point, there was nothing she could do.

"It's okay, Emma," the robin in fluttering in her hands chirped to her comfortingly. "One day, it will stop."

"It will?"

"Just you wait." The metal toy jumped a few times, flapping its wings harder until it was hovering up in the air. "I say, I think I got it!" It leapt away from her palms, circling around her, around the trees and branches, before looping back to her. "I think I know how to fly now!"

"There's wonderful, Lastochka!" The girl gawked in wonder, opening her palms again so that the bird could land. Her wonder however quickly faded to worry. "Listen, Lastochka, there's something I need help with."

"Say the word, Emma, and I will do it," the bird answered without hesitation, primping up its wings behind him and giving her its fullest attention.

She took in a deep breath, feeling a bit guilt growing inside her as she contemplated what she was about to ask. "I need to find Jack, but I can't go beyond the fence of the District."

"So do you want me to nibble you a door through the fence?" the bird asked, clicking its metal beak together for show. "I can do that, but it might take a while. That-" it wriggled it beak uneasily "-and my beak might become blunt from all that cutting."

"No." She shook her head, pointing up towards the sky. "I need you to fly over the fence and go look for him."

Lastochka twisted his head up in the direction she gestured to then, then cocked its little steel head back to her. "It will be dangerous, though. Don't know if I'll make it back."

"Please, Lastochka," the girl begged. She let out a long exhale before telling the creature, "I know wherever he is, he's scared. He needs me."

"If you say so, Emma." The robin hopped once, then twice on her hand, before spreading its wings out and swooping into the air. It turned back once to tell her, "I'll return before the next winter snow falls!"

Emma watched Lastochka until he vanished in the air, then hurriedly scrambled down the path in the woods that would take her home. She didn't want to run into wolves, or even worse, Peacekeepers. She didn't want to get in anymore trouble.

When she arrived at the small little house by the field, the sun was on the edge of setting. She hastened her pace, head swinging around anxiously as she kept an eye out for any Peacekeepers.

When she opened the door, her mother was already waiting there, flustered and displeased. "Emma! What took you so long?"

"I'm sorry, Ma," was all she replied. She knew that if she really answered the question, she would get in a lot more trouble. There were somethings that Ma didn't really understand, so perhaps it would be better if she didn't reply.

But Ma noticed that she evaded the question. "What were you really up to? And did you even collect payment?"

"Oh." She had forgotten all about that. She had been so absorbed in staring at the beautiful toys to remember that she needed to do that. Now that she thought about it, all the beautiful toys, except for Lastochka, would have not survived the blast.

"Emma, what is wrong with you today?" her mother rebuked, frowning crossly. "Tomorrow, you will go back to that house and ask for the money. Understood?"

"I can't, Ma. The house is on fire," she tried to explain.

"Stop making up stories. It's time you grow up a little," Ma snapped, shaking her head. She looked like she wanted to say more, but then checked herself. Sighing, she waved her away. "Go and change, Emma."

The girl meekly retreated to her room, knowing that Ma would find out that what she had said was true tomorrow, when she heard it from the other women in the market. For now, though, Abigail Overland gazed at the huddled form of her daughter and prayed that the heavens give her strength to bear with the girl's growing fantasies.

The woman then, noting that the girl had closed her bedroom door, removed the metal contraption that she had hidden under table when her daughter had entered. She set it in the table before opening its flap again. She took the rubber-coated wires in her hands began twisted them together, coiling them carefully so as not to get tangled. Abigail then removed welding iron that she had hidden in her apron pocket, checked the battery level to ensure there were still enough, before proceeding to use it to solder the loose piece together, all the while keeping a watch on her daughter's bedroom door.

* * *

 **District 12**

"We shouldn't be here."

"Aren't you the slightest bit curious?"

"Not enough to get me arrested."

Pabbie had been gone for a whole month. Some people said at first that he was summoned to the Capitol for, well, _something_. Later news broke out that he had passed away from a heart attack. His body, however, never returned to District 12 and most people suspected rightfully that the Capitol might have something to do with it.

One of those people, of course, had to be Anna.

"No one's going to arrest us, Kristoff," she chided her companion, who was still dragging his feet uneasily on the carpet.

It was in the middle of the night and they were snooping inside Pabbie's old residence – the only occupied house in the Victor's Village of District 12. Technically, since the victor had 'passed on', the property returned to the Capitol's possession. District 12, however, was such a small and unremarkable district that the Peacekeepers couldn't even be bothered to clear out the furniture and belongings in here, leaving the house almost untouched since the departure of its owner. It wasn't as if the District was about to have new victors any time soon, anyway.

"Besides, -" Anna lifted the candle from her candleholder– an extravagant gift that Kristoff had made for her two weeks ago, which he now regretted giving to her – "-even if we don't find any evidence of why they took him away, we might find some, well, souvenirs."

"So you're suggesting we steal from a dead guy?" Kristoff asked her with a raised brow – not that she saw it. She was too busy studying a map of constellations that was hanging from Pabbie's old study door, muttering the names of each cluster of stars under breath.

"I'm suggesting we recycle," she corrected him with a frown. "It's better than leaving all these things sitting here to rot, or taken away by Peacekeepers."

Her boyfriend, as reluctant as he was to be here, had to admit that she had a point. He caught sight of a sturdy-looking pick-axe hanging off the wall. Rubbing his chin in thought for a moment, he then stretched his hand forward and lifted it off the hook. He tested the weight in his hand, whistling in surprise. "Solid."

Anna had lost interest in the constellation maps and moved into the study itself. She let out a soft gasp as she noticed the dusty wooden shelves all packed to the rafters with books. Putting the candlestick on a small lamp table, she reached for one of the books near here. " _'Gray's Anatomy',"_ she read from the cover, turning the yellowed pages and coughing almost immediately when the dust flew into her face. "Well, -" she cleared her throat forcefully as she shut the book, dropping it back where she had found it, "this one's really old."

"He sure has a lot of books on medical stuff," Kristoff muttered, drawing to her side taking up the candle holder and raising the light towards the scores of grimy volumes. "Wonder where he got all of them."

"Well, he's a victor, right? He should have been able to afford them." Even in the dim-lighting, Anna noticed one of the plainer books on the shelf with titled, _'Gnomes, Trolls and Giants._ _'_ It was squeezed in between a book on diseases and another on surgical procedures.

"It's the not cost that I'm wondering about. I'm wondering what's the source of all his- what're you looking at?" He spun himself around when he noticed her crouching down and staring intently, bringing the candle closer to her.

"This-" she pressed her finger against _'Gnomes, Trolls and Giants_ ' "-is a children's book amongst a whole lot of medical books. I wonder why Pabbie put it here." Anna pulled on the book, only to find that she couldn't actually lift it off the shelf, and a 'click' sound had come from behind the book. "What on-" she pulled harder on the book, but instead caused the entire book shelf to swing towards her.

She straightened herself up, grabbing the side of the shelf, pushing back a little, then pulling it forward. It swung easily open, like a door on a hinge. Behind it was a dark space. Anna grabbed the candlestick from Kristoff and held it forward.

Under illumination, the secret room – no doubt that was what it was – came into the light. Both of them stepped into it with a measure of eagerness and trepidation, and the same question came to mind.

"Why would he-" Kristoff gestured at the table that was wired to an odd rectangular device. There was also a plastic lined panel covered with holes and random wires lying around it.

"Well, why wouldn't he, if he had the ability to?" Anna moved her candle over another table that was covered in more maps and books. There was a large map of Panem spread on the table, with more detail than she had ever seen, compared to the one in school. The books there were not medical books, however. One was _'_ _Smoking: Vegetable Preservation',_ another _'Precious Carbon Stones and their Utility'_ and –

"' _The Man in the Moon'_ ," the girl breathed out the name, remembering to well the time when the scientist from the Capitol had asked her if she had known the name. It had meant nothing to her, of course, but if they had asked Pabbie that question, his answer would have been so different. As she flipped open the cover of the book, she saw something that made her reach out for her companion, shaking him.

"Kristoff, look!" He joined her at the table and she pointed at the marking. It was a circle with crooked 'G' twined into it. "It's like the one we saw on my sister's gravestone."

The blonde boy leaned forward to examine the symbol, frowning intently. "Do you think Pabbie was the one who wrote it there?"

The girl tugged against her braids as she thought. "Well, why would he? What does it even mean?"

Kristoff shrugged, picking up the book and poured through it. It was then Anna noticed that unlike most of the other books outside, this one, though still yellowed, was not quite dusty. Apparently, this one had seen more use. As he flipped the pages, the girl suddenly caught sight of something with one of the pages. "Hold on a moment. Turn back."

The boy did ask she asked, returning back to previous pages till he found the page that she caught sight of. It was pages contained part of a story, with the text being surrounded by handwritten markings. Certain letters in the text were circled and had a variation of symbols, ranging from numbers to punctuations marks, written above them. "What are these? Was he editing the story?"

"I don't think so." Anna bit the side of her cheek absentmindedly as she examined the paragraph. It wasn't all that interesting – just talking about a girl wishing on the moon. The text was grammatically sound.

She noticed the boy by her side stiffen suddenly, darting a glance behind them. "Do you hear that?"

Anna paused to listen, and realized that she could hear the buzzing tone too.

Both of them swung themselves around to find the strange metal box on the other table emitting a strange, fizzy sound. As they drew closer to it, they realized that the fizzy sounded like a voice, " _ssss….pssshhhh…_ eight - _bizzzzzzz…pssshhh…pshhh…_ five _ppppshhhhhhhkkkkk…._ asterisk _…bizzzzzzzzssshhhk….._ zero _…pshhh…_ "

Anna was the first to rush over, only to realize she didn't know what to do. The only thing that she could think of doing was to whip around to Kristoff and ask, panicked, "What do we do?"

"I don't know!" The boy stepped forward, gazing at the wires and the plugs helplessly. "I carve ice. I have a reindeer friend. I mine coal for a living – what about that makes you think I'll know?"

Anna fumbled around the panels, finding two plugs and jabbing into the hole. She noticed a bunch of knobs on the side of the device so she began turning at them at random, hoping that it would help. She must have done something right, because the fizz melted off and the voice came clearer, "Alpha, ampersand _-_ _pssshk!_ _-_ eight, zero, Delta, twenty, gamma, omicron, -"

"What's it talking about?" Kristoff glanced at her, completely befuddled by this entire situation.

Anna pursed her lips, listening more closely to it, and then it hit her. She headed back to the other table and grabbed the _'Man-in-the-Moon'_ book. She turned to the page that had all the codes on it, glancing quickly at the marked page. She was about to bring it back to the table with the talking machine, but then realized that the page had no letters written above the circled letters.

"Anna?"

She placed the book down, her gaze falling onto the two other books. She took up _'Smoking: Vegetable Preservation'_ , flipping through it rapidly to find another page with similar written markings to the other book. She found it on page one thousand, one hundred and twelve, where the circled letters had numbers, letter and another bunch of symbols she couldn't really read. She carried it over to where Kristoff was, and the machine was still churning out the words on repetition.

"Here," she lay the book out for him to see. "The message is in code. See? And the page helps you to decipher it. Every symbol, letter or number corresponds to a circle letter in the text."

Kristoff let out a curse as he stared at the pages, his eyes almost falling out of his socket.

"C'mon," she found a pencil on the table. Testing it, she began scribbling out the words said from the machine. "I'll record the words. You decode."

So the two teens, by candlelight, began a furious chore of taking dictation and subsequently translating it by using the key in the book. They didn't know what some symbols were supposed to look like, so that they left spaces in between. In the end, the voice suddenly signed off and fizz died, leaving them in silence with their decoded message, albeit some blanks.

" _Five on-"_ Kristoff paused he tried to guess what filled the blank "-I guess the third letter is either 'r' or 'n', so _'_ _Five on fire_ _(or fine)_ _, but falling. Ten exposed. Ebellion_ – I suppose that spells it as 'Rebellion' – _'at stake. Capitol making powerful healing serum for soldiers_. _Urgent. Thirteen advise.'_ " He handed the sheet with the deciphered message to Anna, who wanted to read it for herself. "So it's true, then."

"What's true?" Anna was still trying to wrap her head around what all this meant.

"The rebellion. It does exist." Kristoff scratched his head, his expression quite unreadable. "Some of the men in the mines talked about it, but it was all hearsay. But it's this message is right, then-" he let out a shaky exhale "-there are districts out there moving against the Capitol."

"Against the Capitol? But-" this was all news to Anna. He had never told her this before "-but how? Wouldn't they get punished for that?"

"Definitely, but maybe the folks out there are braver than we are." He pursed his lips as he read the message once again. "Wonder what's Thirteen though."

Anna glanced at the message again, checking it against the key inside the book. When the message referred to 'Five' and 'Ten', they were clearly talking about the districts. In that case, then – "Maybe Thirteen isn't a 'what'. Maybe it's a 'where'."

"Where?" Kristoff repeated, puzzled.

The girl walked determinedly back to the table of books. At the base of the table was lay a map of Panem, which she hadn't taken much notice of at first when her focus was the books, but now she cleared aside all the debris covering it, she could take a good look at the layout of their nation. She counted the number of circled Districts, and noted the only one that wasn't labelled there.

When the boy joined her side, she pointed at that spot on the map – a spot that was supposed to, according to their history books, have been obliterated by chemical bombs. "Thirteen."

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **Well, it's been a while, because honestly I had reached a roadblock on the story, but I'm glad to say that I've finally managed to work out how the story's going to flow, so yay!**

 **Oh, and just to emphasise again, it's mostly like that there won't be a 75** **th** **Hunger Games in this story. We'll probably go straight into the whole Mockingjay war.**

 **Basically, members of the rebellion have a lot of codes by which they use to pass messages from one another. Why don't they just send messages straight to District 13? Well, because their technology is a lot more limited than the Capitol's and they're trying to be discreet about it – if you're not, then, well, you end off like North. Besides, some of them would also rather send their messages to – ahem – the 'Man-in-the-Moon'. Basically, if you can't work out how the codes work, don't bother. It's really not that important.**

 ** _Lastochka_ is basically Russian for little bird.**

 **Up Next: What could the consequences be for Anna and Kristoff to discover that District 13 exists? Hopefully, we'll also go back to check on District 13 too.**

* * *

 **A/N: So, hello everyone. Hope life has been okay on your side of the world.**

 **Guest Mailbox:**

 **Atom King: I think I'll enjoy writing more of Hiro and Elsa moments. There'll be some about Elsa going out to interact in the future chapters, so I hope you enjoy that.**

 **Skyline10: Thank you! Yep, it'll be fun watching Merida get back to doing some legit work after all that time of slacking off on her part.**

 **Well, adios for now. Hopefully I'll be able to upload this once a month. No promises still, but yeah.**

 **Reviews. Ask Questions. Critique.**


	11. Chapter 10: Bedtime Story

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Bedtime Stories

* * *

" _Captain_ Jack Frost, m'am."

"You're an outlaw," she said, throwing his wrist down as if the contact burned - as if the gloves that covered her hands wouldn't protect her from that. The redcoats around her lifted up their firearms, cocking their rifles at the young man in damp rags.

"But Elsa!" The redheaded girl protested. She was only garbed in her dripping petticoat - highly immodest attire for a lady of her status and age, but was a result of an almost drowning incident. The culprit of the drowning was not the pirate however, but the deadly corset - the latest fashion in the England. The whalebones sown into its seams had done its best to squeeze all the air out of the younger Lady Arendelle, which had resulted her in fainting and tumbling off the fort wall, plunking quite ungracefully into the seas harbour waters. Now what did the white-haired pirate have to do with this entire situation? "He saved my life."

"Yes, but that's hardly enough to erase all the crimes he's done." Elsa intoned coldly, glaring at the fugitive whose hands were seized by the guards at that moment. Iron shackles clamped themselves around his wrists despite his indignant expression. "He's a pirate, Anna."

When the redcoats prepared themselves to march him away however, Anna jumped in front of them, flail her arms wide open to keep them from moving off. "No!"

"Anna." Her sister stepped forward through the ranks of the soldiers, narrowing her eyes to at her sister. "Please let these fine gentlemen carry out their business and for goodness' sake,-" she subtly jerked her head to the labourers and merchants at the dock who were watching the scene from afar "-don't embarrass us."

"Us? You mean embarrass _you_. You never cared about me." Anna shot back with surprising vigour, making her elder sister flinch back in shock. Still soaked through and through, the young Lady Anna Arendelle squeezed through the redcoats to their surprise, putting herself right in front of the fugitive. This act was met with surprise all around, by the gawking faces all around. "This gentleman – though he be a pirate, yes – has saved my life, and that is an honourable act. He deserves far better than these chains that you have shackled-"

And at that moment, Anna was suddenly jerked back as heavy metal flew over her head and the very chain that locked itself around her neck. From the corner of her vision, she could see the innocent, lost young pirate had transformed into a wicked, devious rogue.

Rifles immediately pointed themselves in her direction, but a sharp yell from her sister made the redcoats hesitate.

"Come, come, let's be reasonable here," the grinning white-haired lad said, jerking on the chain and pulling his brunette hostage along with him through the crowd, moving himself down the walkway of the harbour. The redcoats followed him, but when they stepped to close, he would close the chain tighter and she would flail in his grip to no avail. "I'm just passing through the Port and the sooner you leave me be, the sooner your precious _Anna-_ " he chuckled "-would return safely to you."

"You're despicable," the girl hissed at him, feeling disgusted and a little ashamed for having imagined him to be a better person. Elsa was going to rub this in her face for sure.

"Well, I saved your life. I figure you can help save mine." The pirate, Jack Frost, answered without an ounce of repentance. He then jerked his head up to the soldiers, who all looked like they wanted to launch themselves at him. His gaze flickered to the blonde woman – the pale upperclass lady who looked like she hadn't stepped into sunlight for the last ten years. "Well, mind returning my effects?"

It was with great reluctance that the lady barked at the soldier to return his belongings – the hexagonal puzzle box, the compass that didn't point north and of course, the staff with a curved hook at the end. Captain Jack Frost, as he called him, twirled the long gnarled rod in his bound hands all while dragging his hostage back with him.

"Gentlemen," he called to them just as he spied a hook from the crane standing by the edge of the harbour, with a long plank of a platform running along it, going off the pier to land. He swung his head around and flashed his perfect teeth at the encroaching swarm of soldiers, "you will remember this day as the day that you almost caught-" a mischievous glint "- _Captain Jack-"_

* * *

"Grandma, this is the wrong story."

The old woman blinked as she lowered book, gazing down at her petulant grandmother. "What'cha say, Pumpkin?"

"I said-" the six-year old girl seemed a little peeved to have been addressed as if she were a hard starchy fruit that people were so fond of carving in Halloween, "-this is the wrong story. You're reading me a pirate story. This one ain't the one that we were reading."

"You sure about that, Pumpkin?" The grandmother closed the book, glancing its cover up and down gingerly. "I'm pretty sure that the storybook I read from last time that was this one."

"No, grandma." The young girl started jumping up down on her bed quite impatiently. "It isn't."

"Well, I'll be." The old lady adjusted the reading glass on her nose, squinting at the book through the lens. "Seems like you're right after all." She pushed herself off the chair, her bones seeming to rattle against each other as she hobbled over to the book shelf, plopping back the volume where she had found it, then glanced at the scores of books sitting there. "Now, where's that bedtime story…"

"Grandma, it's that's one." The girl pointed to the blue book sitting at the end of shelf.

"Ah." The grandma removed the book, holding it between her wrinkled hands, chuckling softly at her own forgetfulness as she made her way back to her seat by her granddaughter's bedside. Grandma then flipped through the pages of the book and started to read from where she believed that they had left off.

* * *

So he was about to drop off to his death down a hollow chute going who knows where. The enemy was approaching him along the narrow walkway, blocking any possible path of safe escape. Gritting his teeth, Jack swung his light staff against the coming strike towards him, but his reaction was too weak and a searing burn engulfed the entirety of his hand. He screamed as the blood soaked into his sleeves, feeling weak against the darkness towering over him, taunting him with its shadows.

"It's over, Jack," he heard the Nightmare King cackle, waving his gleaming black sickle behind as he stepped forward. Jack quickly slid back, focusing on nothing but putting as much distance between himself and his nemesis. "I can sense your fear."

Between the strands sticking his sweaty forehead, Jack stared up at his foe, defiant still.

"You have great powers, Jack. Powers that the Guardians would never let you flourish into its entirety," he heard Pitch carry on, voice surprising calm and unthreatening. A bony, skeleton hand reached towards him as an offering. "Join me, boy, and I'll show you the true power of the Dark Side. After all,-" he gestured behind them, at the furious spirals of black sand and the spikes of ice that had been formed in the course of their battle "-what goes better than cold and dark?"

"No!" He did not have to think before spitting out the refute. Jack's own gaze burned furiously at his foes, full of anger and hate. The faces of all those he cared for him flashed through his mind, including the friend that had been taken from him without a goodbye. "I would _never_ join you,"

"Don't be so sure." He heard the chilling striking of teeth against teeth as Pitch cackled. "Did the Sandman ever tell you what happened to your father?"

"Sandy?" How dare he bring Sandy? Sandy, the good, the kind, the honourable and brave who had fallen in battle against Pitch back on the Death Star. Jack clenched his teeth. "He told me that you killed my father."

"Jack," there was something in Pitch's voice that was suddenly serious that made the young lad look up despite his bleeding hand, "I am your-"

* * *

"Grandmother." The child sitting cross-legged on her covers was getting a little impatient. "This is still the wrong story."

"Wha'dya mean it's the wrong one?" The grandmother was too getting a little irritated about getting interrupted. "You told me to pick up this book, Pumpkin."

Pumpkin, for that's what we shall call the girl for now made a little noise in the back of her throat. "Yeah, but it's the wrong one."

Grunting, the old woman rose from her seat, moving back towards the shelf and fitting the book back where she was had found. "Well, then which is it?"

The girl climbed down her bed, skipping towards the shelf to help her Grandmother find it their prize for the night.

"D'ya even remember the name of the book?" Grandma asked the girl, who shook her head. Grandma huffed, as she picked up another book on the shelf and flipped through it. "What about this?"

She found a random page in it and began to read:

* * *

"Please, please, work," Hiccup muttered under his breath as he threw the lightstick as far as he could, then quickly stepped off the road, hoping the shadows hid hims. His arms were weak and from all he knew of his gym classes, his aim was also pathetic. However, at that moment the gods must have been smiling down at him, for the glowstick flew up in the air, spinning and spinning into the distance. The spiked bipedal dragon immediately fluttered after it, momentarily ignoring him in search of what it deemed a more exquisite prize.

Panting too hard to sigh in relief, the skinny, bony boy dashed towards the overturned car. Glass pieces were littered everywhere and when he squatted down to look through the smashed windows, he asked, "Is everyone okay?"

"We've just been attacked by a flying creature that shoots spikes from its tail," Merida, despite the cut on her forehead and hanging off the seat of the car like bat, answered with her usual fire. "We're doing just fine."

Rapunzel, who was strapped next to the other girl, did not say anything. Her eyes were as round as dishes and the hands clasping onto the seatbelt were trembling.

Hiccup did manage to get them out of the car – though honestly, Merida was the one who did most of the work by cutting them out of their seatbelts. Through the smashed windows, the two girl crawled their way out, with Hiccup's jacket covering the glass windows. The redhead spent most of the time swearing while Rapunzel spent the time absolutely silent, still looking too traumatised for words.

"We need to get back to the main centre," Hiccup told them once he made sure that at least physically in one piece. "They have to know that the Deadly Nadder escaped."

"No kidding." Merida shot a disgusted look at the torn fences of the compound that had once held the ferocious dragon. Rubbing her bruises elbow, she shuddered. "Ugh. What were these people thinking? Cloning extinct dragons with frog DNA to make a theme park? And 'secure facilities' my foot! What was your mum thinking?"

"Hey, this isn't my mum's fault, okay?" Hiccup defended. "She just wanted the world to love and enjoy dragons as much as she did."

"Well, thanks to her," Merida spat out, stomping her foot at the same time, "we're stuck here, in the rain with goodness knows how many hungry wild creatures roaming everywhere."

"What happened to Jack?" the blonde girl cut in quietly.

The two other teenagers went silent. The last time they had seen him was when he had exited the car to check on what was going on outside. The fury of the rain above had kept them from seeing exactly what had happened to him. They could only hope that the dragon had not seen him, or even worse, had eaten him.

"Come on, guys," Hiccup waved to his two companions. "We should go before the Nadder returns."

No sooner had he said that however did a dark shadow from the sky land right down in front of them. With the electricity all out, there were no lamps to illuminate the face of the beast. It was not needed, however, for the dragon then spread its wings open and all of the sudden, its scaly red skin caught fire. The beast then parted its jaws, a glow emerging from the back of its throat.

All three of them screamed.

* * *

"Grandma!"

"What?" The old lady snapped the book shut, trying not to reveal how much she had enjoyed reading that. Despite pushing sixty-five, she still had a streak of adrenaline-junkie tendencies.

"Stop wasting time and find the book." Pumpkin had tossed several volumes on the floor by now.

"Don't sass me, young lady. I'm your elder." Grandma chided. The girl just went on perusing volume after volume, making her grandmother shake her head. Kids these days – so self-absorbed.

* * *

"Elsa!"

"Jack! Here!" He heard her muffled voice somewhere in the crowd. He hurried past the locals, who frowned at his apparent disregard for manners. The hot weather was making him sweat through his shirt, but he didn't care about it as his head swung from right to left. In the distance, just at the right moment, he saw a large figure carrying a bundled person over their shoulder, in which the person had their head covered and her gloved hands tied together.

"Elsa, I'm coming!" He called while dashing forward, pushing through all the other people.

"Jack Overland Frost!" The words from her were getting muffled. "If you don't get here right this instance, I swear I will-"

* * *

"Still wrong book, Grandma!"

"Oh, very well. What about this one?"

* * *

"You're my _what_ now?"

"Ye fairy godmather, ye wuss," the redheaded girl in the sparkling dress snapped and holy moly – were those wings attached to her back? "Ye waur supposed tae be some kin' sool 'at aam obliged tae care for." She sniffed, rubbing her nose with her sleeve while the other hand, which was clenching some kind of wand, attached itself to her hip. "So, laddie, Ye want tae gang tae th' baa ur whit?"

Hiccup stared at her for a long moment, then finally said, "You know, I can't understand anything in that accent."

* * *

"Grandma!"

"Sorry! A little carried away there. What'dya have with you, Pumpkin?"

"Well, there's this-"

* * *

"Ms. Arendelle, do you honestly expect us to believe that?"

"Excuse me?" She wasn't used to pert interruptions to all that she said. All of the audience turned their heads towards the young white-haired reported, who had a pencil on his ear and a notepad balanced on his lap.

He however didn't notice how he had gotten attention from all attendees of the press conference, focus channelled into his acrid tone. "The flashing light, the swirls of sand, the abnormal about ice that came showering over Arendelle Labs HQ yesterday. You can't expect us to believe that it was all just part of a-" he used his fingers to form an air quotation sign "-'malfunctioned product testing'?"

Eyes immediately swung about and latched themselves on the CEO of Arendelle Industries instead, waiting for her reply. Elsa stared at the crowds, then down at the cards in her gloved hands. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

She lifted her head, searching at the back of the crowd for the two supporters she knew. Kristoff was shaking his head fervently – he was the one who wrote the cards. He was the one who convinced her to play it safe. He was part of some secret government organisation, of course, so he would much rather if everything about her was kept under wraps.

But Anna was standing next to him, and she was nodding, smiling even a little. Ever since Anna had found out about her powers, their relationship had somewhat been repaired. Anna wasn't afraid, and she didn't want her elder sister to be afraid either.

Letting out a tight breath, Elsa placed the cards down on the podium holder, which was met by Kristoff smacking a hand against his forehead. Under the gaze of the crowd, she removed her glove and pointed her hand towards the empty front of the stage. A glow appeared in her palm, and shot forward. A collective gasp swept over the throng as a fence of icicles emerged before them.

Elsa sucked in a breath, before breathing into the microphone, "I am the Snow Queen."

The conference room exploded with questions.

* * *

"Okay, that's definitely not it. Next one!"

* * *

"I know what you are." The sing-song tone had a taunt in it.

"Oh?" He acted completely calm, but inside him, a flurry of emotions raced everywhere, invading every part of him. "And what would that be?"

"A vampire."

Jack blinked. "Come again?"

"You're a vampire," Anna repeated with a hint of smugness, removing her notepad from her bag and beginning to peruse its pages. She stopped when she found the one she was looking for. "I've done some research, and it all matched up. Look-" she pointed at the shorthand in her book "-you're impossible fast. And strong. Your skin-" that made Jack glanced down at his hand and wonder a little self-consciously about what was wrong with his skin "-is pale white, and ice cold. You sometimes speak like-" she snapped her fingers as she tried to phrase her thought in words "-like you're from a different time. You never eat or drink. So-" she clapped the book shut with a smile "-you're definitely a vampire."

Jack stared at her, then he cleared his throat, saying, "Okay, I think I need to explain to you the concept of _'immortal winter spirit'_ …"

* * *

"Hmm, vampires aren't what they used to be," Grandma muttered as she removed the book from the shelf. There was no need for Pumpkin to be reading that trashy novel.

"Grandma,-" the girl sounded excited, "-I think I got it!"

"Well, have ya, Pumpkin?" The old lady hobbled over to her granddaughter, who then opened the book and began to read.

* * *

"Rapunzel von Wolfe."

The girl rose from her seat, her hands shaking as she prepared to move out of the seats. However, before she could, she felt Mother's iron grip wrap itself around her wrist. She turned to face the woman by her side, who was smiling like a cat amongst the pigeons.

"Remember what we spoke about last night, dearie," Mother said sweetly, laced with veiled threats.

The night before the Choosing Ceremony? During dinner that night was the first time Rapunzel had ever lied to her mother. She had to – after all, it was a dangerous thing to reveal that one's faction compatibility included more than one faction. Divergents were not tolerated in the existing social order.

Having no choice, Rapunzel nodded and her mother let her go. Weaving pass the other gray-clad members of her faction, the blonde girl approached the stage, where the five bowls awaited her. A knife was there too, already stained by the blood of other teens that had chosen their factions before her.

She picked the knife up while her eyes ran over the different bowls. Each stone basin had something different in it, but her gaze was caught between the two that mattered to her the most. The Abnegation bowl, full of smooth stones that undoubtedly represent hardship of selflessness, and the Dauntless bowl, full of glowing embers that represented the fiery boldness that they believed in.

Rapunzel bit her lip as she slid the knife across her palm, letting out a hiss despite herself. She could feel the stares of the audience as they waited impatiently to put her hand over the Abnegation bowl, as expected from a sweet, timid girl like her. Because that's all she ever was - sweet, timid, thoughtless and naïve. Mother told her often enough it was a good thing she was bornin Abnegation. In any faction, she would have been trampled over by now.

But even as Rapunzel straightened her hand out over the Abnegation bowl, she hesitated. It wasn't that she minded spending the rest of her life helping the poor and doing good deeds. The problem really was that did she really want to spend the rest of her days cooped up in her tower, under Mother's cold, laughing gaze, and staring out of the window wishing for more?

It could be silly, perhaps, but she wanted adventure. She wanted daring. She wanted…

Rapunzel shifted her hand over to the Dauntless bowl. Her blood dripped on the charcoal pieces, hissing loudly her decision.

There was a gasp of surprise, but it was followed by hearty applause from the Dauntless crowd. When Rapunzel lifted her head, she could see Mother's gaze burning straight through her soul.

* * *

"Hmm, I guess it's kind of similar, but not the same," Pumpkin said with a sigh, throwing the book down. Shoulders drooping, she defeatedly returned back to her bed, crossing her arms in a moody sulk. "I guess will never find the right book after all."

"Come, come now, Pumpkin. Don't be upset." Grandma could never stay too upset with her for long. Shuffling back to her chair next to the bed, she patted her granddaughter on the head. "We're bound to find the book sooner or later. Now, how about we start on a new story?" Grandma held up one of the volumes that she had picked off the shelf, making an 'Oooh' sound as she did. "This one's about Arthurian legends. Would you like that?"

"Not really," said Pumpkin, clearly no longer interest in stories. She leaned back into her pillow, only to find that her head collided with something hard. "Ow!"

Sitting up, she pushed the pillow a way. And there it was – the book they had been looking for all night long. "Grandma, look!"

"Well, I'll be!" Grandma adjusted her glasses to see it for herself.

So Grandma took up the book and Pumpkin lay back down in the bed. Letting Grandma read the story from where they had left off last night.

* * *

 **District 5**

"And that was the story about how a Grandma read to her granddaughter stories. They both lived happily ever after. Well, until Grandma passed away from a heart attack, but that was a lot later."

She put the book down and glanced down at the three redheaded toddlers. They were all fast asleep – having done so perhaps a few minutes into the book. It wasn't that interesting a story, so it was no wonder that that had happened.

Elinor then reached over for the nightlight and dimmed it, so that it would be strong enough to protect her boys from the monster under the bed. It wasn't however able to protect them from the skirmishes outside their home. She then left their bedroom, closing the door behind her. As she did, she noticed how their large home seemed abnormally empty nowadays.

Rebellion efforts led by her husband were surprisingly effective, and it had been a week since the Mayor's Manor and several other small towns around District 5 had been out of Capitol rule. However, since Fergus had to be close to the frontlines himself, Elinor hardly was able to see him anymore. She missed him, of course, and she worried, though there was little else she could honestly do.

She stepped into her office, flicked on the lights and found herself being surrounded with men in dark, unfamiliar armour. By the polished armour though, she knew that these fellows were Peacekeepers.

"Mrs. Dunbroch," the Head Peacekeeper spat out to her harshly, "we have detected an abnormal amount of calls going to and coming from this office." One of the masked soldier behind him stepped forward with a pair of handcuff. "Come quietly, and we won't blow this place sky high."

She considered her options. On one hand, she could run, run to find Fergus wherever he was. Another was that she could struggled against them, try to see if she could snatch their weapons and kill them all. But in doing any action of defiant, it might very well come at the cost of the lives of her boys. Oh, why didn't it occur to Fergus to post some guards around the Manor? Didn't he foresee that Peacekeepers would sneak into the Manor?

Letting out a sigh, Elinor let them put the cuffs around her wrist and drag her away, down the hall and to the kitchen backdoor. She made a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that her family would stay safe and sound. For once, she hoped fervently that Fergus' conquest would succeed – there was no choice about the matter anymore.

* * *

 **Well, Happy April Fools' Day, folks. If you've read my works before, you know that I usually post a weird chapter on April Fool's Day every year to mess with the readers. This year's one isn't really funny, I know, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. It's not beta-ed though, because I really want to post it while it's still April Fools' and I'm in a bit of a hurry.**

 **Basically, nothing in the chapter really happened in The Wrath of Five except for Elinor's bit. Therein lies the true twist – the storyteller and her granddaughter were just characters of another story being told by someone else. Also, this chapter was an excuse for me to explore other ROTBFD AUs in a short period of time. Can you identify all the movies that each of the other AUs that were based on? (I'll post answer on the next legit chapter).**

 **Sorry for disappointing anyone that this isn't a real chapter. I'm still working on that one.**

 **Adios! Happy April Fools'!**


	12. Chapter 10: Day in the Life (real)

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 10: Day in the Life of Your Average District 13 Citizen

* * *

 _ **Previously on The Wrath of Five, super brief (and chronologically maybe jumbled):**_

 _In District 13:_

 _Elsa now has a suit that can contain her powers._

 _Hiccup works in the Dragon Sanctuary._

 _Merida makes a deal with Calhoun to stop taking morphling._

 _Ralph is still in special forces._

 _Hiro is recovering from his fainting stint after giving Elsa her suit._

 _Elsewhere in the Panem:_

 _In the Capitol, President Lotso wants to make a healing serum for himself. Eugene Fitzherbert/Flynn Rider is realizing that Rapunzel might be still alive._

 _District 5 has rebelled against the Capitol, with the Mayor leading them. The Mayor's wife, Elinor Dunbroch, has been quietly arrested from her home by peacekeepers._

 _In District 10, rebel Nicholas St. North has been killed by Capitol forces, as witnessed by Emma Overland who is now talking to toys. The outcome of his accomplice Bunnymund is still unknown._

 _In District 12, Anna and Kristoff have learn to decrypt messages from rebellion forces from Pabbie's belongings._

 _There are so many characters in this story._

 _And now…_

* * *

 **District 13**

Tamora Jean Calhoun was programmed to be the perfect soldier. 'Programmed' – because every fibre of her being was an intentionally designed by the Capitol.

At least, every fibre save the streak of rebellion.

As far as she knew, she had no parents. She was probably created in a tube, with a mixture of traits and qualities that the Capitol thought to be useful to their cause. Her memories of childhood consisted of exercise regimes, eating regimes and reciting oaths of loyalty to the Capitol. When she was of age, she entered the Peacekeeping Corp, to be an idealised example by which the lesser soldiers from District 2 would aspire to be follow. She was efficient and effective, following command after command without question and firing without a flinch. She was the perfect soldier.

Until she fell in love.

He was a scientist working in the Capitol Underground. According to Capitol protocol, she wasn't supposed to get married – or get into any kind of relationship, actually - but love could not be bound by protocol and she found herself to be secretly engaged.

Until he died. She was told that he was killed by rebellious forces.

If there was any kindness, goodness or mercy in her heart before, it evaporated in that moment. Never mind that she got promoted and didn't technically need to go into field anymore. She strapped the armor back on, a baton on her hip and an automatic in her hands. Battle was really where she shone anyway. In the chaos of bullets, blood and bones, she drowned out her own pain and wrecked revenge on the people who had caused the death of her beloved.

It was her near savage ferocity and her tireless vigilance that rocketed her to power. An assassin had managed to sneak into the Capitol, with the intentions to murder the President. She wasn't on duty – just there to check some administrative reports and get signatures – but her keen eyes had her launch herself on the assassin the minute he had reached for his weapon. Needless to say, she had neutralised the threat.

The President had rewarded her richly, of course. Her uniform was decorated with President's Crest – the highest honour any soldier of the Capitol could ever attain. Her fame spread like wildfire throughout the Capitol. Bureaucrats she had never met flocked around her in hopes of leeching off her influence. Generals and Commanders swarmed around her in hopes of recruiting her under their divisions. She had been personally invited to dine at the Presidential Palace seven times, and she was wealthier than she had ever imagined. Calhoun could have been given anything she wanted, but her programming never let her get spoiled by the attention and wealth. In the end, the very fibre of her being had one sole goal – to serve Panem, or die.

In order to serve this cause, one of the privileges that had been assigned to her was to interrogate the very assassin whose attempts she had foiled. The unkempt ruffian of non-existent dental hygiene however proved to be a difficult nut to crack. When she had ordered for him to lowered back into the dragon pits, he had called out to her, _"Doctor Brad Scott."_

She had halted the proceedings then, because her curiosity got the better of her. How did this surly, ill-bred hooligan know the name of her secret fiancée?

"I know a lot of things, Calhoun," the assassin had told her smugly, even as blood dripped from his forehead and infection consumed his limbs. "I know when the guards of the Palace change their shifts. I know why Lotso uses so many damned handkerchiefs. And -" his grin had widened in that moment "-I know why Doctor Brad Scott really had to die."

The price of sharing this information had been to help him escape, and Calhoun, loyalist to the core and faithful servant to Capitol, did it without a second thought. The assassin had kept his word and told her the answer. She didn't believe it right away, of course. She wasn't a fool. But investigation after investigation made it increasingly clear this new piece of information was accurate, making the seed of doubt bloom into detestation. No longer could Calhoun serve the Capitol valiantly and as fiercely as she had used - not after the lies that she had been fed.

Years later, the assassin contacted her, only this time he was no longer an assassin, but the President himself of a District that was not supposed to exist. He gave her an offer that she couldn't refuse – _revenge_.

Tamora Jean Calhoun had never looked back since.

"This is Calhoun to MiM."

She was sitting in an isolated, soundproofed office in the middle of the night. No one knew about the activities that she had engaged in at this time, and there was no reason that anyone ever should.

Liet. Calhoun went on speaking into the camera, though she heard no reply. She understood that wherever MiM was located, it would be difficult for him to be online on the communication link twenty-four-seven. Hence, in the last seven months that she had been sending him reports, she had always recorded it out before sending over and wait a few days before the leader of the Panem's internal rebellion answered, or sometimes, he didn't answer at all. It didn't matter to her. As long as she did her duty and followed orders, that was sufficient.

"You asked for a progress report of the Five children we extracted from the Games," Calhoun went on. In her hand, she held a set of files she had written down over the last few months. "So I've assessed them, spoken to them, and here's my evaluation." She flipped open the first file. "I suppose it would be best to get the mutant out of the way…"

* * *

 **District 13**

 **Canteen**

"This is free?"

"Not 'free'. Not really." It was a comical sight, watching the ginormous boy use the itty-bitty fork to pick up even more itty-bitty pea from the mash. But Elsa didn't

laugh, because she was horrifically polite that way. "Everyone in the district works - even people you'd think couldn't work have jobs here. You do your part, and you get rations and lodgings in return. Simple as that."

"That's fair, I suppose." Still a part of her was amazed. Since her parents passed away, food had never freely entered her hands. The mushy porridge and the soup weren't the most appetizing, perhaps, but it was better that the cold food that she had eaten throughout out her confinement.

It was Elsa's fifth day out in District Thirteen and there was still so much she had to learn. There were so many buildings to navigate and rules to follow. She had even gotten a schedule of her own, though it couldn't be printed on her hand like others. Instead, it was printed on the gauntlet part of her armour, where it could be washed off at the end of the day. Thank goodness that Hiro made the armour water-resistant.

Her insulated cabin had been repaired after she had all but destroyed it. The construction engineers in charge had politely warned her that they would not do this favour again due to the cost, and she best not go around breaking glass walls for the fun of it anymore.

'Fun of it'. As if there was any part of her powers that was _fun._

At night, she still returned to the enclosure to peel off the armour, bathe and sleep. But by day, she was free to roam the district as long as her body was encased in their metal box. It wasn't the most comfortable, she had to admit, but it was a welcome exchange from the isolation of the enclosure.

But didn't meant that she was completely at ease in the District. Her gleaming armour stood out like a sore thumb in a place where everyone was clad in dark hues. People's heads would swerve her way when she walked passed and whispers would always follow her wherever she went.

Not that people were necessarily hostile. In fact, most were kind. The other boys who had escaped the Arena, Hiccup and Ralph, were nice enough to let her sit with them in meals and had patiently explained to her the many regulations of the District. The doctors that she visited were always ready to answer her questions. Her long-suffering psychologist, Dr. Joy, was very pleased with the progress that she was making socially and emotionally, attributing the improvement to the armour. Even folks that had tip-toed around her before were now more willing to draw near her, ask her about her powers.

That was all their interests were usually limited to, though. She wondered if any of them even knew her name.

After lunch, all of them parted ways according to their schedules, and hers was to attend a class on emergency drills. It was the most basic lesson that every new citizen of District 13 had to undergo, to err on the side of safety if nothing else. On her way there, however, she found herself waylaid by a sharp call, "Soldier Arendelle."

Elsa spun around to look for the voice, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the term of address. Yet, she realised that this was how everyone in the District was titled to unless they had another rank. She found a tall woman with a short blonde fringe in military garb beckoning her with the sharp jerk of her hand. Uncertain, she stepped towards her, asking, "Can I help you?"

"Lieutenant Calhoun," the woman introduced her shortly. "I was a spy for Thirteen in the Capitol and responsible for extracting five of you from the Games."

"Oh." Elsa's eyes widened at the startling explanation.

"Enough on the niceties, though." The Lieutenant drew her arms behind her back, the very image of efficiency. "I have a very serious matter this discuss with you." There was no option available in the statement, so when she directed her down the corridor, Elsa had no choice but go down it with the soldier by her side. As they went down the path, people around them immediately cleared the way – whether for herself or the Lieutenant, Elsa did not know. What she did know was that the soldier was a terrifying woman.

"Soldier Arendelle, though you had resided in isolation for your seven months here, you are aware of the situation of District 13, yes?" Lt. Calhoun got to the point.

Elsa nodded, though inwardly she was wondered if there was might be some knowledge of it that she didn't actually know.

Calhoun fortunately didn't take her word for it. "To break down the details-" the Lieutenant chose this time to crack her knuckles, making Elsa gulp at how loud the popping joints were "-we're not at war yet, but we expect to be soon. Since the chaos that 74th Games that you and your merry bunch stirred up, rebellion sentiments have been growing in Districts. District 13 is intending to ride on the momentum."

"Ride on it to do what?" Elsa couldn't help asking. She added at the last moment, "M'am?"

"To lead the rebellion, of course." There was a scoff in Calhoun's tone, as if she expected the girl infer it by herself. "We have better weaponry, military training and strategy than any of the rag-tag urchins in the Districts. If we don't lead, the Capitol would squash out the insurgents and the rebellion dies like a fruitcake smashed by an avalanche."

"Of course." Privately, the blonde girl grimaced at the term _'rag-tag urchins'_. Perhaps that how people like her looked in the eyes of someone from the Capitol. But did people in District 13 see them that way too?

"The president and I have agreed-"

"The president?" In her mind appeared the dark, intimidating man that sat at the end of the Council table five days ago. Just a gaze alone from him could work up shiver after shiver from her – and she was immune too cold.

Calhoun scowled at the interruption, making the girl shrink back. Seeing that she was suitably cowed, the soldier then continued, tone sharper, "Yes, the president. He and I have agreed that the best way that the Rebellion needs to a unifying factor. An icon that everyone can behind. A voice _for_ the people, _from_ the people, _against_ the Capitol."

Elsa took a moment to process this information, then said, "What do I have to do with this?"

"Do you remember the other four children who were saved with you?"

The girl nodded. "Well, there's Hiro, Ralph, the nice District Two boy and – um, another girl?" She looked to the soldier for assurance.

"More or less." Calhoun's manner turned to one that was more approving. "And what do you notice about all of them?"

"Well-" Elsa thought hard about the four children, running over their traits, behavior and appearance to try to find what the Lieutenant was looking for "-they're all…normal?"

"Precisely. They're normal, which means that they're useless. You, on the other hand-" Calhoun suddenly grabbed by her gauntlet-covered hand, making her gasp and involuntary step back, as if prepared to run "-you're a mutant."

The word itself was enough to make her heart still.

"You have extraordinary powers – dangerous powers, admitted. You're an anomaly that Capitol had never counted on. What's more, out of the five of you, what you've did during the Games had the greatest impact. I don't know if you remember what you did-" the soldier's voice lowered, even softening a little "-when the Ten boy died."

A white flash ran before her eyes; the cold snow pelting down around them; the pallor of his face as he begged her to put him out his misery; the sobs that echoed in her throat when his cannon fired.

"Back in the Capitol-" Calhoun was oblivious to the turmoil rolling in the younger woman's head, - "I discovered that _that_ moment was the most watched scene in all Hunger Games history. Even in the Game Centre, everyone was stunned. No one could take their eyes off the screen. The tragic end of young love-" the woman snorted, but it was too steep in regret for it to be scornful "-that's a tale everyone remembers."

"Certainly." Despite her fear of the soldier, Elsa couldn't help the bitterness in her voice. To everyone else who watched the Games from the screen, it was just a tale. A tale that happened far, far away to a strange beautiful girl and a strange beautiful boy that would have the mothers in the District thanking the stars that neither were their child, and mothers in the Capitol would weep about how boring their lives were comparison.

These people hadn't been there. They hadn't felt the fear of death, the guilt of survival, the sickening twist of the stomach when one realised that the Capitol had won again. That's why people didn't know her name. They only knew 'the Snow Queen', the pale mysterious, power creature that belonged to that sad, tragic tale. She was just a player on the stage to them.

"The point is – you're memorable. You're inspirational, even." Calhoun stopped them along the walkway then. Elsa thought that they were to take a turn somewhere, or that the soldier had forgotten something and wanted to go back for it, but the soldier did nothing except stare at her. " _You_ are exactly what we need as a unifying factor."

Elsa blinked. "Pardon?"

"You're the embodiment of the rebellion," the soldier went on, first time her words so fueled with passion. "You _have_ rebelled, in fact. The Districts think you're dead, of course, but once you are revealed to be living, you'll be known as 'the rebel who lived'. You will be the people's hope."

"The people's hope?" the girl repeated, bewildered.

"We want you," Calhoun slowed down so that she would catch everything "-to be our _Snow Queen_. A Queen to call the Districts to battle and to strike fear into the hearts of Capitol."

"A symbol," Elsa said, the truth dawning on her.

"Yes." Calhoun nodded. "Now, I know that this is only your fifth day out – you want some time to stretch your legs. Fine. But consider this proposal seriously." She grabbed on Elsa's arm, shocking her. The girl thought of pulling away, but was too afraid to.

The soldier then leaned forward, her eyes scanning their surroundings furtively, before saying in a low voice, "Trust me when I say that I wouldn't push you towards it now if I had a choice. But the president has orders and he is not a patient man. Just ask Hamada." Drawing back, Calhoun then told her, "You have two days to consider it. I suggest you use it wisely."

And with that, Elsa was waved back to her schedule, but she couldn't really pay attention during the emergency drill class. Her mind was flooded with all the new information that had been dumped on her shoulders and she wasn't sure what exactly to make of it. To be a symbol? Her? Had the Lieutenant make a mistake?

But no, the Lieutenant was clear that it was the President who was really behind this request, and that this wasn't a proposal that she could decline willy-nilly.

As she lay in her bed that night after reflections, with her hair loosened from its braid and her armour sitting in a corner of the room, she tried logically to contemplate the pros and cons.

On one hand, she did owe District 13 for saving her from the Arena and giving her a safe haven. They were strict and rigid, but not cruel like the Peacekeepers had been. In her time here, she had never seen anyone malnourished or mistreated. There were rules, yes, and some rules were difficult to adhere too, but the punishments were reasonable. Yes, District 13 was a much better place to stay in than District 12. In that case, it wouldn't be a terrible idea that to help the District 13.

But another part of her was hesitant. Back home, she had always been studious in studying, even material from the Capitol. She doubted the Capitol was lying about how ruthlessly they had crushed the uprising when it first occurred. True, they had lied about District 13 being completely destroyed, but the fact was that District 13 had been devastated enough for them not to have taken any action since.

Therein lay the very crux of the issue – if there was a war, who would win it?

From the little that she had seen of District 13, Elsa knew that they were nowhere close to the Capitol in terms of technological and administrative advancement. They lacked the resources, the knowledge and the manpower win definitively over the Silver City, which was so ridiculously well-endowed that it had built itself on the top of a mountain range. If the Capitol could build such an elaborate and complex enclosure like the Arena, she didn't doubt that they had much more that could crush detractors.

If she became the symbol of the Rebellion, she would be calling people to suicide.

The next morning, she already knew her decision, but still, a part of her wanted a second opinion. She considered talking to her psychologist about it, but Dr. Joy was an expert on emotional wellbeing, not politics. The one she intended to speak to was no pundit in politics either, but after all that he had done for her, she couldn't help but think that his opinion would be important.

During lunch break, she ate the meal quickly before heading to the infirmary block of the District. When she entered, she found eyes latching to her the way flies latched to honey, and the clinking noise that her armour made whenever she moved her joints was not helping. Uncomfortably, Elsa shuffled her way through the hospital, trying not to notice the broken, yet hopeful stares that came here way. She stopped one of the nurses on the way to ask her for Hiro Hamada, and the nurse was so awestruck that she could barely stammer out the words. The blonde girl was hasty in escaping that nurse, just in case she was pushed to answer her questions, hear her story and become her symbol – become her call to war.

She did not want to be the Snow Queen.

In the last five days, she had been checking on Hiro. The boy had, after all, was responsible for changing her life in the District and she was eternally grateful for it. The least she could do, Elsa reckoned, was to show a little care and concern.

For most of those visits though, the patient had been unconscious. He had been exhausted, the curious nurse robot that accompanied him had told her. He had not been eating well and had been sleeping poorly, so after week of stress, his body had broken down and he had fainted.

" _With adequate rest and nutrition, he should return his normal state,"_ the robot called Baymax had told her, while patting a squishy hand against her metal-encased shoulder. _"There, there. Do not worry."_

When she went there today, she found the nurse-robot waddling around, awkwardly moving displaced chairs while faithfully watching over his charge. The young lad that lay reclined on the bed had circles around his eyes and his body was slumped back like a ragdoll. His head however did jerk in her direction when she entered his room, and he grinned at her.

"Hey," was the greeting Hiro had provided, while Baymax politely waved to her and bleeped a _'hello'_ in his usual cordial fashion.

"It's good to see that you're finally awake," Elsa said in turn, drawing herself next to his bed. She was genuinely glad, not just because she had advice to ask of him, but he had seemed really ill on the night that she had sped him over to the infirmary. It was a relief to see him gain back some colour in his cheeks.

"Yeah," Hiro drawled out sarcastically. "I'm sure the President wants me discharged ASAP so that I can return back to my work." The boy let out a long huff, blowing back the long black strands dancing over his head, before twisting his neck towards her. "Hey, you're wearing my armour."

The blonde girl smiled in confirmation, nodding at him. "Apparently, due to this, -" she held out her two covered hands towards him "-people trust me enough to let me wander around the District."

"That's good to know," Hiro told her sincerely, but his grin slipped off as quickly as it had appeared, his expression turning darker. "No doubt they've already want to put you at work."

Elsa sighed, any good feeling she had fading. "Yes, actually, they already have a job in mind."

"Well, what is it? Military? Weapons Tech? Artillery?" The boy sounded a little accusatory, almost savage. "Special Forces? Espionage?"

"Um, no." She was a little surprised by all of his suggestions. Elsa then went on to explain to him about what Calhoun had told her. On hindsight, it was possible that information was meant to be confidential, but the Lieutenant had not explicitly told her not to tell anyone either.

Once she was done, the boy went silent for a short while, before saying, "Well, that's not too awful, I guess."

"Not awful?" she repeated, astounded that that was his response. "But I'll-I'll be leading people to war. People will die, because-" she wrung her hands together, an act that would have produced a blizzard had she not been in the armour "-of me!"

"Elsa," Hiro told her gently, but firmly, "war is coming, whether you like it or not. You are right to say that District 13 would not win against the Capitol alone. But that's precisely why they need the Rebellion. Alone, District 13 doesn't stand a chance. But with the Districts of Panem-" he nodded at her vigorously "-that changes everything."

"But what if District 13 doesn't win?" she questioned him, panicked and fearful. "What if people end up dying for nothing?"

The boy with black-spikes for hair snorted, shaking his head weakly at her. "Elsa, do you remember the other children who were in the Arena with us?"

She had to admit that she didn't remember all of the names, but the faces, she did. They visited her sometimes at night, at strange hours that no doubt bore an ill omen. The cruel visages of the Careers would chase her through endless woods, where fire followed her feet and her powers engulfed everywhere in an icy sheen. Those who had been kinder to her were slaughtered before her eyes over and over, and she kept waking up to dry imaginary blood off her hands. Yes, she did remember.

"Well, if we don't destroy the Capitol, they would have died for nothing," Hiro spoke gravely. "In fact, if we don't stop the Capitol, every year, another twenty-four kids will again die for nothing. Do you honestly think you could live with on your conscience? I couldn't." He gritted his teeth together, full of a vindictiveness that she found odd coming from a lad like him. "As much as I hate Bludvist and his hard-as-nails administration, he's got a point. The war waits for no one." He then sighed heavily, resting his head back on the bed. "You should go. I really need to rest and recover so that I can, you know-" she could see him try to shrug, but gave up when it became too hard "-go back to work."

His words were now what stuck with her throughout the day. Through her duties to clean her fellow citizens' cabins and a class of basic weapon assembly, her thoughts were zoned the pivotal question that she would have to give an answer for tonight.

"You don't have to sit here, you know," the skinny District 2 boy told her as she set her tray down in front of him. It was dinner time, but the canteen did not seem as crowded as before. The big boy, Ralph, was not here to dine with them tonight, which she found puzzling. Her companion must have guessed what she was thinking of, because he then informed her, "Military drill tonight."

"Oh," she said as she climbed into the seat opposite him. When she glanced behind her involuntary, she noticed that most people were watching them, which wasn't all that remarkable, but their miens seemed to hold a measure of disapproval. That was rather unusual. "Why aren't you part of it?"

The District 2 boy – what was his name? Harry? It somehow escaped her – let out a snort. "More like they wouldn't trust me to hold a gun around them. Well, I wouldn't trust me either, to be honest." He pulled a face. "I really sucked at shooting back home. They had to tell my dad that either he took me home or he get me a new set of limbs. They were right, partly. My dad should promote them."

Oh. District 2. Peacekeepers. Now the disapproval made sense.

He must have been able to guess her thoughts again, for he said once more, "Again, you don't need to sit next to me."

Well, it wasn't as if she knew anyone else in this District. Trying to disperse the awkwardness, she rummaged her brain for a question. "So, what do you work as?"

"It's supposed to be confidential," he began while, but then he paused, assessing her briefly. He then drew himself up straight. "You know what? I think out of everyone here, you should know."

So he told her about his work, how District 13 had scores of muttations – specifically, dragons. The dragon-keeper in charge was a bright woman who also sat on the council. She was in charge of their care and Hiccup, for that was his odd name apparently, worked kind of like her apprentice.

"Prof. Vogstein told me that Hiro had consulted her while building your armour," Hiccup said as when they emptied their plates. "She knows a thing about beings with powers. If you ever do want to talk to her, I bet she'd be willing."

' _Beings with powers_ '. Privately Elsa did not enjoy being saddled together with giant reptilian brutes, but she could tell that Hiccup hadn't meant it as an insult. If anything, from the way he talked about his dragons, he seemed as if he considered it a privilege. Perhaps having powers was a really privilege; a privilege that came with responsibilities.

She wasn't ready for these kind of responsibilities.

But the war waited for no one, not even the so famous Snow Queen. As she lay on her bed that night, she knew that she was expected to give her response soon.

She wished that there was someone else she could discuss this with. Not that Hiro's input hadn't been useful, or Hiccup's – but it would be nice to have someone older and wiser. Someone who could tell her was to do with all this power and responsibility that had been abruptly dropped into her lap. She wished her parents were still alive.

She wondered if Anna still was.

In all her days moping in the containment facility, she had never really allowed herself to think of District 12. Indeed, any experiences that she had there before seemed more like a distant dream in the face of The Hunger Games. However, tonight, a wave of memories washed over her. Bitter thoughts were forgotten in favour of brighter recollections. Involuntarily, a tear rolled down her cheek.

Though the guilty part of her felt that she was no longer deserving of returning there, the homesick part of her hoped that one day it would happen regardless. Elsa longed to see familiar faces and smell familiar smells, but most of all, she just wanted to know how Anna was. Did she hate her? Did she miss her? Questions such as these felt much more important to her than calls for war and political tussles.

And it was in that second that she had an epiphany – that moment of conviction as bright as the blazing sun and as clear as cut-crystal. She leapt off her bed to retrieve the frost-bitten exercise book, the very same filled with her sessions with Dr. Joy. She pried open the pages, breaking off the ice before picking up her pencil, beginning to write,

' _My name is Elsa Arendelle. I am nineteen years old. I grew up in District 12. I was born with powers over ice and snow. When I was eighteen, my sister was reaped for the 74th Hunger Games, so I volunteered in her place. Thanks to District 13, I survived The Hunger Games and have since taken refuge in Thirteen. The people here want me to their 'Snow Queen' – their face of their war against the Capitol. Even though I know that I should do this, it would be foolish for me to embark on this project without any compensation. So, in return, these are the conditions that I will ask for in return for my service to the war:_

 _Anna's safety. She is to be brought to District 13 at the earliest opportunity._

 _Refuge for District 12 citizens_ …

* * *

"Bludvist wasn't pleased with most of the conditions she had set. I understand his position." Calhoun sniffed as she flipped the page on her report. "A teenager making demands? Quite unheard of. Then again, they had managed to negotiate out the terms, primarily that of her sister."

"Now, -" she swapped the file for the next in the pile "-for Hamada, they gave him few more days to rest. He's been discharged but-" scrutinising her own scribbles "-is now being monitored twenty-four-seven by a nurse robot of some kind to ensure his continued physical fitness for work."

The lieutenant then went on the next file, perking up at the name on the label. "Well, next on the list should be interesting. _Hiccup Haddock_." Her lips curled up with derision as she read it. "I've actually met his father before – very severe man. Strict principles and fierce loyalty. Admirable qualities. Pity he's on the wrong side."

Calhoun let out a contemplative sigh as she lay the sheet down, folding her fingers together. "The boy, however, is quite different. Incredible non-confrontation, to the point that I wonder if he's hiding anything…"

* * *

 **District 13**

 **Dragon Sanctuary**

"And he's okay with-"

"Yes, yes." She waved away his worries, ushering him forward. "Go on."

Hiccup crept towards the reptile perched on the rock, lapping up the water rolling down to the artificial waterfall – or was it real? Valka had told him that the Dragon Sanctuary was a cavern that they had found underground. District 13 renovated parts of it to make it accessible for humans, and the dragons themselves adapted their environment to their needs. So was this waterfall original, incidental or deliberate? The boy didn't know.

But he wasn't concerned with this at the moment. For now, he was sneaking up on a Monstrous Nightmare – a dragon with devilish red scales and a nasty habit of lighting itself on fire. For that reason, it produced a very unique type of saliva that was incredibly flammable while protecting the reptile from burning itself. This was a property that Hiccup found fascinating, and apparently so did the Professor.

As the boy neared that beast, the creature suddenly stiffened up, twisting its large, thorn-ridden neck around so that its beady eyes could catch sight of him. He gave a nervous laugh, of course, because the last time he had an encounter with a Monstrous Nightmare, it was trying to burn his skin off. That had was certainly no walk in the park.

"Greetings, Mr. Monstrous Nightmare, sir," was opening line to charm this fearsome, magnificent reptile that was breathing smoke onto his skin – _dragons are friends, dragons are friends, dragons are friends –_ and glaring down at him as if he were a bucket of shrimp. The boy gulped, glancing in alarm back at the watching woman. She only laughed, telling him to keep going.

Taking in a breath, Hiccup turned back to the creature. Maybe if he imagined that he was talking to Toothless, this would be a lot easier. Except, you know, Toothless and him had a whole history of almost killing each other, bonding over hatred for the Capitol and near-death experiences. He had just met this dragon _today_. How was he going to survive this when he had barely mastered _human_ social skills?

Clearing his throat, Hiccup produced the slimy fish in his hand and held it out to the beast. "Lunch?"

The minute the dragon caught sight of the meal, Hiccup could have sworn that the creature leapt up in joy. Its fangs widening up before he snatched up the fish, making Hiccup yelp in surprise. The Monstrous Nightmare then swallowed the fish down, seeming to have enjoyed this little snack. When the red reptile turned to face Hiccup once again, its manner was a good deal more friendly, with its wings folded down slightly instead of being hunched out and spread as it usually was. It cocked its head questioningly at him, then jerked its head up towards Valka, who was still an amused spectator to the scene.

A gurgling sound came from the back of the creature's throat before it parted its jaw, and out flew a regurgitated half a fish, straight into Hiccup's open hands.

"Oh. Thanks." The boy's head dipped down to the gift that had been presented to him, dripping with goo and saliva. He removed the test tube from his belt, filling it up with the greenish gel, then set the test tube back on the holders of his belt.

His gaze then flitted to Valka, who beaming proudly in the background. He lifted the fish head so that she could see and she gave him a thumbs-up. Just as he was about to move away from the Monstrous Nightmare all together, she suddenly signalled him to stop. Puzzled, Hiccup watched as she gestured towards her own mouth and made a 'carrying' action. He then caught sight of the Monstrous Nightmare's expectant expression and glanced down at the raw, half-digested fish.

He groaned inwardly, muttering, "Seriously?"

Needless to say, he had a stomach ache for the rest of the day. Half-digested fish did that to you.

That said, the research findings were interesting. Hiccup wasn't as familiar with all the science terms, but he did understand from Valka, as she studied through the microscope, that the Monstrous Nightmare saliva contained a component of that allowed it to combust in a steady, controllable way, as compared to the explosive the saliva from Nadders and Night Furies. It was extremely flammable, yes, and when it burned, it could reach astoundingly high levels, but once all the saliva was burnt off, the fire died immediately.

"Aren't dragons just amazing, Hiccup?" Valka told him, as she always did, after teaching him a new fact, or introducing him to another dragon, or whenever they found something in research.

He would smile, partly because he agreed and partly because he found her amazement pretty infectious. "They really are."

He supposed that he was her protégé, in a way. From what he observed of her, she didn't spend very much time out of the Dragon Sanctuary, even taken her meals there and had an inflatable mattress that acted as her bed. She didn't interact with many people other than himself, walking and talking to dragons instead, for they were all the company that she needed. Both of them weren't the only people that actually worked in the humongous compound, but Hiccup could tell that she wasn't all that into human company.

"Don't trust those ones, especially that one with the goatee," she told him one day while they studied the spikes on a Nadder. She wasn't talking about the dragon, of course.

Hiccup followed the direction of her gaze, and saw the group workers moving through the office, with a muscular fellow with long hair and goatee doing the ordering around. He was probably their leader.

"Who is he?" the boy asked as he scratched the neck of the Nadder, making it coo and yap in glee.

"Eret Eretson." Her voice was dripping with contempt as she raised the measuring tape towards the Nadder's crown of spikes. The creature was familiar with the practice and dipped its head down, allowing the woman an easier time doing her work. "He's one of the president's lackeys. He and his boys come in every now to boss me around, make sure that _'I'm doing my job'_." She huffed heavily as she wrote the measurements down on her hand, then handed the tape to him. "Here. Measure the rest of the lengths, and you can take the day off with Toothless."

Hiccup's face brightened at the thought, but it turned confused when he saw her grab her helmet and put it over her head. "Um, where're you going, Professor?"

"To clear out the vermin," was her short reply as she picked up her bone staff, disappearing into the misty backdrop of the cavern. He shrugged off the situation then. Though she was nice to him, Valka Vogstein was a formidable woman and he doubted that there was little she could accomplish.

He couldn't help admiring her. Not just the vastness of her knowledge on dragons, but on the amount of work that she took on herself, as well as the confidence radiated off her. She knew who she was and what she was good it. She didn't hesitate to do whatever needed to be done. She was proud and fierce as the dragons she befriended. Hiccup could only wish one day he would be like her.

Later on, he did go and see the Night Fury. Toothless was ecstatic to see him turn up, as always, and Hiccup mentally noted to see change himself out of his now-saliva soaked uniform, as always.

The dragon wasn't permitted to leave the premises and Hiccup wasn't allowed to stay over in the sanctuary (for security reasons, they said), so whatever time could spend together, they treasured. Valka permitted him full access to the labs and their machines. So within the first few days of his new work, Hiccup had crafted himself a new foot. Despite his previous assumptions, Toothless had not emerged from the Arena completely unscathed. His left tail fin, according to Valka, had been badly damaged during the teleportation landing, and as a result it had to be amputated. Looking back, Hiccup recalled that too during the Games, it had also been Toothless' left tail fin that had been injured, only to be repaired by Rapunzel's healing hair. To have an injury at exactly same spot could have been considered bad luck, or extremely serendipitous. Perhaps it was a sign from above that both himself and Toothless were destined to be partners.

"Ready to fly, bud?" he greeted the Night Fury when they met at Toothless' allocated resting pod. The large tongue slapping itself against his face was evidence enough of the beast's enthusiasm.

The polished metal contraption that acted as a foot slipped in between the hinges, locking perfectly together. The metallic fin attached to those hinges sprung open at the twitch of Hiccup's false ankle. Toothless, who had been watching the process with his large emerald eyes, gurgled in glee to that they could take flight once again. Without warning, the reptile bounded forward, and Hiccup had to hastily brace himself before his steed leapt off the platform and spread his wings.

The tail fin had been a labour of love – with the love coming from Hiccup's dedication to the project, and labour being Toothless' initial frustration to having himself harnessed. Considering how long it took for himself to get used to his prosthetic, Hiccup actually understood how the beast felt towards the curious weight that was now hooked to him. It was like having a leech glued to once self – itching, bruising and even depressing. But if Toothless was ever going to fly again, he needed a new tail fin, even if that tail fin had to controlled by manually.

'Manually', meaning by a skinny young man, who was thankfully pretty light.

 _Flying_. There was nothing quite like it. The wind trapped in his hair, biting into his eyes, blasting past his cheeks – it was exhilarating. During the Games, flight had been marred with anxiety and panic, with looming threats left and right. But here, in the sanctuary, under Valka's protection, there was no fear. In a way, Valka was the queen to the small cavern of creatures, so he felt safe.

" _Alpha_ ," she had corrected him when he had mentioned this to her. "The King of a Nest is traditionally known as the Alpha. He's usually a dragon, of course."

He had paused when she had mentioned that. In all his time in Sanctuary, she had never told him that there was an indeed such thing as an alpha dragon, which he had once heard rumours about back in District 2. The dragon was theorised to be much larger than normal dragons, and more powerful too. He had never seen such a dragon in the sanctuary, so he asked Valka about it.

She sighed as she gazed down at him, and she said, "That's classified, my dear boy. I'm sorry."

That meant, _"Probably, but I still can't tell you anyways."_

He didn't dwell on the problem too long, deciding he had best enjoy whatever he could get.

But as much as he'd like to believe that the Sanctuary was a paradise, he was no fool.

One time after taking a flight around the Sanctuary, a harness buckle snapped, so the boy took his dragon back into the labs to get measurements and fix it. As rider and steed strode through the halls, with Hiccup babbling about how well Toothless did those turns and Toothless basking in the praise, their conversation was cut short when they heard Valka shout, _"You have no right!"_

"No, _you_ are the one who has no right here, Professor," he heard a mocking voice taunt in return. Frowning, Hiccup shuffled towards the viewing deck of the lab, motioning at Toothless to keep quiet. The reptile silently followed his boy as they snuck closer to the deck, keeping themselves hidden behind the larger containers.

"In the last week, you had already moved ten of my dragons." Through the holes between the container, Hiccup watched as Valka stabbing her staff emphatically in the ground. The fellow in the soldier's uniform with tattoos – Eret, wasn't it? – didn't flinch under her scowl. "You're not going to take twenty of them this time without telling me where!"

"Professor Vogstein, your duty is to care and rear the beasts," came Eret Eretson's malicious answer, folding his arms as he did. "It's the military's duty to decide what to do with them."

"Do not speak of my dragons like that." Abruptly, she swung her staff towards taller man, striking him across the face and making him stumble back. Hiccup gasped when he observed the man reach for the gun strapped to his belt.

Fortunately, Valka had seen that too and pointed the curved end of her staff towards Eret, forcing him to freeze. "How dare you even think of attacking me?" she snarled at him, making even Hiccup stagger back in surprise. "Don't you know who I am?"

Eret Eretson moved his hand from his belt, but a scornful look twisted itself on his face instead. "Don't flatter yourself, Professor. You may be on the Council, but the President still has the last say. Sooner or later, those dragons will be taken." Knocking her staff away, he spun around and headed for the elevator.

Valka did not move from her spot, watching as the glass carriage carried the hateful man from the viewing deck of the sanctuary back to the Department of Defence. Then she sighed, leaning her staff against the console and sinking into a nearby chair, face buried in her hands.

Now seemed like a good time to emerge from his hiding spot, so Hiccup did, with Toothless following just a few feet behind. He climbed down the steps, approaching the woman who had become his mentor over the last few weeks. If she noticed his entrance, she did not say anything. He gently lowered a hand down to her shoulder and only then did she lift her head up from her hands.

"I _hate_ people." The vehemence in her tone startled him, but he tried to hide quickly. "I hate politics and rebellions and wars and all this stupidity." Toothless let out a small whine, approaching her and blinking. Valka stroked his head, bitterness filling her words as she did. "Why can't people be more like dragons? Loyal, loving, peaceful unless provoked."

She then lifted her hand from the dragon, rising to her feet as she looked at Hiccup. Cupping his face her hand, she smiled. "I'm glad that you're here, Hiccup. You make it all worth it."

She departed without bidding him good evening or offering to join him for dinner, but he couldn't forget the gentle touch of her callous hand, wondering how a simple gesture like this could communicate such a depth of warmth.

* * *

"Vogstein has nothing but good things to say about him, of course, but her perception is skewed." Calhoun paused, resting her chin over her hands as she thought. "I'll continue to monitor him, in case of dissent. Otherwise, no cause for alarm."

The blonde soldier moved the file out of the way, her hands resting instead on the last two. She pressed her lips together.

"District 11 kid's adapting well. Very well. Hammer some discipline in his brain and he could be one of our strongest soldiers ever. As for the District 5 one – our scarlet spitfire…" she bit her lip. ", I've made the concessions you suggested. I've even taken to training her myself but-" she shook her head "-progress is inhibited…"

* * *

 **District 13**

 **Training Barracks**

She could do with some morphling right now. To sooth the bruise under her neck if nothing else.

"Pathetic, Dunbroch," her trainer spat at her. "You didn't even try."

She rubbed against the sore spot, eyes fastened onto her superior. Ever since this 'deal' thing she made with the Lieutenant, she'd been clean from morphling. It wasn't her own decision, of course, but they've spring surprise blood tests on her to make sure she wasn't on it. Not to mention, she barely seemed to be alone anymore. The great Lieutenant targeted her all the time in practice and Ralph never seemed to leave her side outside the barracks. She would have been grateful for all the trouble they went through for her if she wasn't feeling incredibly moody and nauseous. Withdrawal, Ralph had told her quite smugly. Withdrawal from morphling.

 _Withdrawal and Training_. That seemed to be what described her life right now.

"To your feet, soldier," Calhoun demanded, slapping her leg with the offending pole and making the young redhead yelp. "We'll do this again."

Merida gritted her teeth together as she reached for her pole, punching it into the ground so as to push herself to her feet. Trying to steady her shaky feet, she lifted the training staff slightly.

Without warning, the blonde soldier went in for her legs. This time Merida paid attention, jumping out of the way. However, the Lieutenant swiftly changed the direction of her strike and the girl only avoided it by blocking it with her own staff. _Thwack! Thwack!_ went the practice poles against each other, with the Calhoun's attacks relentless and Merida's parrying just seconds behind. Around them, other soldiers paused from their own sparring to watch the furious exchange. The younger and older woman danced across the rubbery mat, staffs clashing over and over.

But Merida's wits were not completely. At one point, she had raised her pole to block off the Lieutenant's incoming slash, her trainer had twisted her staff around and struck her in the abdomen instead. The girl staggered back and dropped her weapon, panting as she clutched onto the prodded site, only to find the end of her opponent's pole pointing at her chin.

"If this were a real fight," Calhoun sneered, "you'd be skewered like a kebab."

"If this were a real fight, no one would be fighting with poles," she shot back.

Calhoun lowered her staff, eyes narrowing on against the teen's defiant expression. She then spun to the onlookers. "What're you looking at, lug heads? Get back to practice or I'll give you something real to look at!"

The other soldier hurried returned back to their sparring, knowing better than to disobey an order from her. The Lieutenant, hands on hips and lips in a downward curl, swung back to Merida, long fringe barely hiding her burning eyes. Tapping the mat with the end of her pole, she ordered, "Fifty."

The girl groaned as she lowered herself to the ground, pressed her palms against the ground and began the push-ups, counting, "One. Two…"

The Lieutenant however spotted her mistake. "Stop. Start again."

Merida rolled her eyes, but obeyed restarted the count, gritting her teeth as she murmured, "One, _m'am._ Two, _m'am_. Three…"

The day couldn't end soon enough. In fact, by the time she left the barracks, it was eight in the evening. Above the ground, the sun would have already set. Most of her peers, who had been released earlier on, had already had their meals. She was quite alone when she sat back down herself along the long metal table. The food was not really that appetizing, but she was hungry, so she gobbled it all down.

"Hey, kid."

She didn't lift her head, drawling out boredly, "Hey, Mr. Special Forces."

Though she was looking at him, she could feel Ralph wince. "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"Aren't you proud of getting in?" Merida asked him, a tinge of jealousy rising up her chest. She wasn't sure why she cared, honestly. It wasn't as if she desired his responsibilities. Just the recognition.

"Yeah, but-" the big boy squashed himself uneasily behind the table, "-you don't need to announce it all the time like you hate it."

She grunted as she scrapped up the last morsel with spoon, shoving it into her mouth.

Seeing that she was not going to initiate any conversation herself, Ralph cleared his throat and started on, "So, how's training?"

She gazed levelly at him.

"Bad?"

"Calhoun's a slave driver," the girl muttered harshly as she reached for the juice on the tray. It was orange in colour, but it didn't anything like orange juice. In fact, she wondered if it was even juice as the cook had claimed.

"She's not all that bad," Ralph defended mildly. "She means well."

"She called me a half-witted wombat and it would have been better if I were dead and my organs are donated to dying soldiers." Merida sniffed as she brushed her curls out of her eyes. "Except that my insides are already destroyed by morphling, so I should just bury myself in manure because at least my rotting corpse can be used for fertiliser."

"Oh. Um, listen." The boy, though at least twice her height, seemed rather uneasy in her presence. Perhaps he was scared of her. Of course, that would beg the question of why he hung around her so much. "You're supposed join us tomorrow for training – special forces training, I mean."

"I am?" she shot him a critical look.

"Calhoun told me."

She pushed the tray away from herself, scrunching her face up in bewilderment. "She know that I barely get by on physical training as it."

The boy shrugged. "I'm just supposed to inform you about it. It's intense at times, but you might like it." He cast a curious look at her, frowning. "You're not back on morphling, are you?"

"No. Don't suppose you have some on you?"

The next morning, a venue different from her usual was printed on her arm. She went to the Defense department and found herself going to a floor she had never been to before. When she stepped out of the elevator, the guards examined the schedule on her arm then pointed her to one of the doors down the corridor.

That door opened automatically for her and she stepped in to find herself in a shooting range. There were other cadets there, standing around and leaning against the barriers, chatting amongst themselves. She earned a couple of odd stares from them, given the differences of her uniform from their own, but she didn't say anything, moving straight to a corner. She crouched herself down and folded her arms over her knees, deliberately not looking at anyone. She didn't like how purposefully and eager they looked to train.

"Hey."

She jerked her head in the direction to the voice. It was Ralph, unsurprisingly. "What?"

"See you made it on time." He offered a big hand to her, which she took, and pulled back her feet.

It was just in time, for the Lieutenant had just marched into the shooting range, yellow hair still hanging over half her face and countenance twisted into her signature scowl. The special forces soldiers immediately straighten themselves and saluted at her. Ralph and Merida did so too, though the latter frowned when she did it.

Calhoun went straight to the point - no greetings, no niceties. "Alright, rookies. Listen up! I've only got three hours to finish this course, so you either get it now, or you're beaten on the field like piñata. Kohut, my gun." One of the trainees picked up one of the weapons from the rack and threw to her. She caught it deftly and held it up. It was a minigun, thicker than a leg and longer than her arm "On the field, this is the ultimate deal breaker. Use it right, it will kill for you. Use it wrong, it will kill you."

The trainees moved out of the way as she advanced towards a shooting booth. She swung the minigun over the barrier, flicked the safety off and without warning, hit the trigger. The barrage of bullets that came flying out took everyone by surprise and the trainees hurriedly covered their ears while they watched in morbid fascination as the Lieutenant turned the plastic target into splintered bits.

Finally, the shower ceased and Calhoun drew herself away from the booth. To the soldiers, she ordered, "Get your weapons and start practicing. I'll be vetting each of you separately."

The special forces cadets broke off from their groups, heading towards the racks to get their weapons. Others went to the shelves, retrieving earmuffs and googles. Merida didn't follow Ralph when he went off though, hoping that if she kept still in her corner, she wouldn't be noticed. In fact, she might even be able to sneak out if she was –

"Soldier Dunbroch!"

Nope. She sighed.

Merida marched up to the Lieutenant and saluted, expression screaming reluctance. Fortunately, the blonde woman didn't seem to notice, or at least, she pretended she not to. Calhoun beckoned to follow her, so she did, shoulders slumped and feet dragging.

Calhoun took her further down the range where the guns were thinner and light, where she eventually pulled off a long slender rifle. Holding it up to Merida, she asked, "Do you know what this?"

Merida shook her head. She hadn't exactly paid much attention in her weaponry classes, so she couldn't remember the different names of the firearms and their various uses.

"It's an AWN." The woman explained, running a loving hand down its body. "Bolt-action. Effective firing range of 1 200 yards."

The girl did as she was told as the Lieutenant lowered the weapon into her grip, showing her how to balance it in her two hands and where to put her fingers. It was quite heavy, but not too much for her to carry.

"You look through the scope-" Calhoun tapped on the round cylinder attached to the top of the rifle body "-and you aim. Go on." She jerked her chin towards the shooting booth.

Rifle pressed against her shoulder, she stepped uncertainly forward. Around her, she noted that other cadets were already practicing with their weapons, exploding into chaotic clamor. She regretted not putting on a set of ear muffs beforehand, but now with the rifle filling up both her hands and Calhoun watching her expectantly, that would have to wait.

Her knee hit the barrier and she stopped. Letting out a breath, she tried to relax her shoulders as she raised her eye to the scope. She had never held a rifle before, and it had been ages since she had shot anything.

A wave of fear suddenly came over as she held the weapon up. What if she missed? What happened if her gift of marksmanship had been lost?

"We don't have all day, Dunbroch," she heard Calhoun grumble.

Gritting her teeth, Merida pulled the trigger and felt a jerk in her hands as the bullet flew. Lowering the rifle from her gaze, she turned to the Lieutenant, "How did I do?"

The Lieutenant stared at her incredulously, then jabbed a thumb at the screen that indicated her results. "Were you even trying?"

She had missed the target completely. In fact, the computer couldn't even compute where her bullet's location

"For someone who's supposedly the best sharp shooter The Hunger Games has ever seen, your performance is outright miserable," was Calhoun's contemptuous comment.

Merida scowled when she mentioned the Games. The Lieutenant knew that it was sensitive topic, so why did she keep bringing it up? It made her wonder if years in the Capitol had made the woman a sadist.

Raising the rifle back up to her shoulder against, she took her time to think. She squinted through the scope, eye following the grid lines. She let out an exhale, steading her hands the best she could, thinking of nothing but the plastic target before her.

And she pulled the trigger.

And again.

And again.

Each time, she felt the bullet flying from barrel, felt the springs moving under her cheek, felt the pistons shifting through the chamber.

She didn't stop until she heard a 'click'. The cartridge was empty. When Merida removed the rifle from her shoulder, she didn't even need to look at her score to know how well she fared this round. Calhoun's expression said everything.

"9 perfect shots in succession," the Lieutenant murmured, folding her arms as she gazed at the screen. "I guess you do have it in you."

"I guess I do," the girl conceded. She felt a little dizzy as she rested the firearm against the barrier. It was heavy and her arms were getting tired. But there was something else rising up in her – relief? Confidence? Euphoria even?

"You'd have to move on to moving targets, of course," she heard Calhoun say. "On the field, the enemy isn't going to stand still for you."

"On the field?" For some reason, this idea surprised her. Maybe the safe confines of the shooting range made her forget the purpose of training in the first place.

"I intend to move you into the special forces. We could do with skills like yours."

Her heart rapped itself against her chest in alarm. No tests, no check-ups – a one-way ticket into the most converted military squad in District 13, with orders that came directly from the President. She wouldn't be squashed in some office doing administration, or scrubbing toilets like before. She would be back to doing what she was good at doing. Shooting things. Fighting. Being a warrior.

Being a hero.

But as her eyes fell on the black rifle leaning against her hands, she could only imagine such weapons in the hands of white soldiers, of faceless killers and heartless brutes. She could imagine seeing small heads in the distance through the scope, to imagine how easy it'd be to pull the trigger and to feel nothing when the figure crumpled up behind the lens.

Guns were for peacekeepers. For the Capitol.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't be like _them_.

"I don't want this." Merida all but threw the sniper rifle back into the Lieutenant's hands, making her near-unflappable superior widen her eyes in surprise. "I can't do this, I can't-" she didn't know how to explain herself. In fact, she didn't know if she even knew the reasons herself.

She spun away from the Lieutenant, striding past the training other cadets and ignoring Ralph's call at her. She disappeared out of the door and made her way as quickly as possible out of the Defense Department, crossing over the tunnels and the corridors to the geographical department. She keyed in the code, which she had learned from spying on Calhoun in the past, and took the elevator up to the surface level. The guards at the door were suspicious of her appearance, but the minute she mentioned the good Lieutenant's name, they were appeased, giving her the band as her tracking device before pulling the lever and hitting the buttons.

The doors were then opened up and she ran out into the forest, into the sunshine and the breeze. She soaked in all her surroundings, rolled her shoulders back and lifted her hands, trying to forget the weapon that she had just held in them.

* * *

"She's problematic and I honestly don't think she's worth the trouble," Calhoun sighed, rubbing her forehead. "We don't have time to be picking up the pieces of broken people. I know you've requested specially to have to turn the Dunbroch girl around, but if she's not going to budge, I can't wait for her."

Setting aside the last of her files, Calhoun paused briefly, before speaking into the microphone once again, "That's all I have to report, sir. I'll keep you in the loop for any developments. _Viva la Panem_."

And with that, she ended the message. Saving the file on the database, she sent it through the encrypted code, hoping that MiM would find it soon. Gathering up her files, she rose up from her seat and left the room.

The minute she stepped outside, she heard, "Lieutenant!"

Her head jerked immediately to the sound of her title and she saw it was none other the big District 11 boy. "Soldier Reckit."

"M'am, I've been looking everywhere for you." The big boy was hastily saluted her as the words tumbled from his mouth, "There's a situation down at the infirmary. They just brought in two refugees and one has a message. Kohut thinks you should be the one to hear it."

"A message?" Calhoun's brow shot up. While refugees arriving to District 13 was rarely a surprise, this was the first time she had heard of them having a message.

"He was carrying this." The big boy handed her a small token. Gazing down in her palm, she saw a black pin – made of coal, by how light it. It was a circle entwined with a crooked 'G' shape.

Her chest tightened and she ordered her subordinate. "Take me to him."

Both Lieutenant and Cadet sprinted to the infirmary, dashing straight through the main wards and heading to the ones that held single beds. As they dashed past one of the wards, Calhoun noted that that one ward was newly filled with a young girl reclined on a bed, unconscious and bleeding. Nurses fastened a mask over her scarred face and dressed her various wounds. Her heart rate was haywire, prompting the doctor in the room to yell out a new command and for the nurses to double their pace. The ward that Ralph Reckit led her to was adjacent to that ward, which held a young man instead. Hefty fellow with a tall build. Bruises and scratches decorated him like the other young woman, but most of his wounds had already been dressed and he did not seem to be in distress.

Physical distress, at least. He was yelling hysterically at the doctor, "Let me out!"

"Young man, please calm down-"

"I need to find her. I need to- I need-"

"Your companion is doing fine. The medical team is treating her now. Please, if you don't restrain yourself, you're-"

"No, no, you don't understand." The young man, who couldn't be older than twenty, now that Calhoun got a better look at him, shook his head vehemently. "They shot her down. The hover- the hover thing - they shot her-"

"Yes, yes, we're doing our best to fix that up. When she's better-"

"No, no, not her." The boy seemed like he was talking to himself now, making a motion to rip out the tubes attached to his elbow. "No, no, no – _Anna_. Anna. I need find-"

Unable to stand on the sidelines anymore, Calhoun marched over to the patient and struck him across the face. There was silence immediately. The doctor was furious, of course, and Soldier Reckit was stunned, but at least the babbling stopped.

"Get a grip on yourself," she told the blonde boy sitting on the bed, who slowly lifted his hand to touch his cheek. "Going crazy isn't going to help your friend."

The young man turned to face her, his brown eyes assessing her starched uniform and her stern expression. He swallowed.

"Reckit, Doctor, -" Calhoun thumbed at the door "-out."

The doctor was offended, opening his mouth in protest. But Ralph complied immediately, as much as he was burning with curiosity. Just as the doctor began to wag his finger, the cadet grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out too, shutting the door behind them both.

The Lieutenant, without lifting her glare from the young refugee, lifted up the coal pin that Ralph had handed to her. "You were carrying this."

The boy nodded contemplatively, as if wondering whether he could trust her.

"Where do you get it from?"

He hesitated, then said, "I made it."

"Why?"

"We wanted you to trust us." He gulped.

She raised her brow. "You … and this Anna person?"

He nodded. "To show that we support the rebellion."

Calhoun closed her fist over the pin, staring straight into his fearful eyes. "This isn't just a symbol of the rebellion."

"It isn't?" the boy sounded genuinely surprised, but she wasn't sure. He could be a spy, for all she knew. The Capitol's spies were excellent actors – she knew, because she had trained them before.

"No. It's a symbol of the Guardians." There was no recognition in his eyes. "The Big Four." Still nothing. "Under the Man-in-the-Moon?"

That was when his eyes lit up and his mouth feel open. "The Man-in-the-Moon?"

"So you know that title?"

"Yes." He nodded frantically. "Yes, yes, it's from the message we decrypted. From the radio. Pabbie's radio. The message that we needed to pass down." He started running his large fingers through his hair, desperation and anxiety radiating off his every inch. He seemed too uncomfortable and worried to be a spy. "The message-the message-oh, Anna-"

"What is it?" Calhoun barked, resisting the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him. The doctor had been displeased when she had slapped him and she supposed it wouldn't be wise to assault him any further in his state. "What's the message?"

He looked at her with large, haunted eyes. "The Man-in-the-Moon is dead."

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **For the life of me, I still can't spell Calhoun. Keep adding an 'r'. Arrrgghhh!**

 **Kohut's just one of soldiers from the 'Hero's Duty' game in** _ **Wreck-it-Ralph.**_ **Incredibly unimportant.**

 **Eret, son of Eret, is from HTTYD2. I don't like this character much though he's technically redeemed. I do like Valka, though not because she's Hiccup mum – she's a terrible mum, no question. But she's interesting as a dragon vigilante lady.**

 **Okay, the part about Toothless losing his tail fin again is quite abrupt, but, urgh, I'm not going to waste time making another arc about losing his tail fin** _ **again**_ **. That's already done in** _ **The Odds of Five**_

 **This was honestly a boring chapter. I think I look forward more to the next one.**

 **Up Next: Stuff. Well, Kristoff needs to tell his part of story, doesn't he?**

 **Answers for the AUs of stuff in the April Fool's Chapter:**

 **Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl**

 **Star Wars: Empire Strikes Back**

 **Jurassic Park**

 **Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark (This scene was very brief, so I don't blame you if you couldn't get it)**

 **Cinderella**

 **Iron Man**

 **Twilight (haha, my favourite)**

 **Divergent**

 **Thanks for guessing people, and putting up with my nonsense.**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I haven't updated since forever. I'm sorry. It's just plot bunnies, school, real life, questioning purpose in life, and obsession with writing three other stories…**

 **Yeah, that stuff. Hopefully the writer's block would die after this chapter because the next is supposed to be more interesting. Supposed to be…**

 **I can't promise when the next chapter would be, but I too, like you, hope it's soon.**

 **Review. Critique. Ask Questions**


	13. Chapter 11: A Deathly Blow

The Guardian Games: The Wrath of Five

Chapter 11: A Deathly Blow

* * *

 **District 10**

So, they learned that Nicholas St. North was dead.

How did he die?

The story went that his house caught fire and blew itself up. It was a rather tragic affair. The whole of Panem mourned the loss of another of their decorated victors, though he was sort of old and uninteresting by now.

No one in District 10 believed it, however. There were people who had seen the smoke rising from the house, the white trucks belonging the Peacekeepers and heard the firing of guns. Security in the District had increased, with guards now accompanying workers into the fields and punishments now being conducted regularly in the town square. The Capitol was not happy with District 10.

"Get the door, Emma."

Her mother had not commented on her honesty regarding the attack on North's house. Ma didn't want her to believe for any reason that just because she was right once meant that she was right about other things, like invisible sword-wielding fairies and flying metal birds. So Emma responded by mutely following her mother's commands and doing little else.

Drying her hands on her skirt, the girl made her way over to the door. She couldn't guess who was outside, because now was night time, and with the curfews, no one was supposed to be out.

Opening the door, she was surprised to see a man in a dark hat and coat at the door. His face was obscured by the shadows, but Emma couldn't help but feel like she had seen him before.

"Emma, who is it?" her mother called from the bedroom. She didn't reply, because she didn't honestly know who.

"I need to speak to your mother," the visitor told her. He glanced over his shoulder, into the dark expanse behind him. There was an anxiousness in his tone. "Immediately."

"Emma, who's-" Ma broke off when she reached the door herself, her brows rising in surprise at the unexpected sight.

Without asking for permission, the visitor stepped in, boots coated with mud and coat reeking smoke. He was carrying a suitcase with one hand and using the other to remove his hat, revealing his graying hair. The girl let out a little gasp. He was that man that she had seen at Mr. North's house before the fire started.

"Mrs. Overland," he greeted, shoving the hat under his arm.

Her mother considered him with an unreadable expression, before telling her, "Emma, close the door."

The girl did as she was asked while the unexpected guest stripped himself further of his dusty, ash-scented coat. He was haggard and exhausted, with bags under his eyes and a worried crease on his forehead.

Her mother didn't invite him to sit, instead going to the windows and drawing the curtains. Her manner was brisk business-like, but she sounded aggressive. "What are you doing here?"

"Peacekeepers are looking for me," was his simple reply.

"So, you came here," was Ma's angry remark.

"Yes."

"I don't know what you're involved in, and frankly I don't want to know." Her mother then turned to her. "Emma. Go to your room."

She glanced at the man, whose scarred, tattooed face dipped down to her. For a face that had been so hardened by war and anger, his expression towards her was strangely gentle.

Ma's tone became harsher. "Emma."

The girl scrambled across the dining area to her small room. She made the move of closing the door, but left a little gap. Through that narrow slit, she watched the scene playing out between the two adults.

"What kind of trouble are you in, Mr. Bunnymund?" her mother asked, folding her arms up.

The man didn't answer immediately, but Emma watched his shoulders droop suddenly as his hands dug into his pocket.

Ma didn't let go of the question, however. "You and the other victor were working together, weren't you?"

She watched the man sigh. "We were allies. They got him, and now they're looking for me."

"You can't be here." There was no hesitation in Ma's words. "You must leave. Now."

"Mrs. Overland – Abigail – please. There's nowhere else I can-"

"Your presence is a danger to my daughter and to me." Her mother pointed towards the door decisively. "I won't report you, but I can't house you either."

"Mrs. Overland." Mr. Bunnymund's tone became cold. "You don't realise that if they get me, they will get you too."

"What do you mean?"

"Once they find me, they will find those that I've been in contact with. And considering that I've once given a significant sum of money to you, they'll find you out – sooner or later."

A flash of fear appeared on her mother's face, but it was quickly hidden. "You assured me that the transaction would be discreet."

"Well, I used to think the rebellion channels were untraceable. I was wrong, of course." Mr. Bunnymund hung his head down, gritting his teeth as if in pain. "I could be wrong again."

Emma's eyes widened. The _rebellion?_ Mr. Bunnymund, and the nice man who had given her _Lastochka_ were part of the rebellion. She wasn't completely sure what the word meant, but whenever people in District 10 mentioned it, it was spoken with a mix of longing and fear. Moreover, people avoided saying it all in front of the white-coats, for that kind of thing could lead to whipping, or worse – getting shot. If the Capitol didn't like this word, then it was no wonder Ma didn't want to the man to be here.

Her mother's opinion however seemed to have been changed slightly. She paced the room once, then twice, then she sat down at the table. Throughout the whole thing, Mr. Bunnymund didn't speak, just holding his suitcase, and watching her expectantly.

Finally, her mother, face pale, asked, "You can't stay here forever. They'll find out."

"I only need five days."

"Two."

"Four."

"Three."

"Done." He sounded oddly satisfied, which made Emma suspected that was the number he wanted all along.

Ma must have come to a similar conclusion, for her manner was a good deal more snappish, like a customer who had been cheated of a good bargain. "You can't leave this house at all. I won't have people spotting you wandering around here." She marched over to the window, peeking out of the curtains. "Are you sure you weren't followed here?"

"If I were, there'd have been more knocking on your door by now," was Mr. Bunnymund's exasperated reply. "Besides, I won't need to go out much. I'll working here on my escape plan out."

"Hmm." There's a disbelieving note in her mother's voice as she lowered down the curtain flap over the window. "And what is that plan exactly?"

"I thought you didn't want to know anything."

"You have to convince me that you actually have a plan for leaving."

Mr. Bunnymund shrugged as he lifted his suitcase onto the dining table. "Alright, but don't blame me if you don't understand it. It's quite complicated."

Emma remembered seeing him unlock the case and open it, but she never got to see what was inside the case, for she had fallen asleep then. Not on the bed, but next to the door where she had been eavesdropping. She had lain slumped in this fashion until a jolt against her leg awoke her. "Emma! What are you doing on the floor?"

She sat herself upright, rubbing her eyes and squinting as light pierced her pupils. "Erm." No excuse came to mind.

Fortunately, her mother was not really in a mood to question her. "Come." She took her by the hand. "You'll sleep in my room for the next three days, alright?"

The inquiry of why was on the tip of her tongue, but then she caught sight of Mr. Bunnymund sitting next at the dining table, with an assortment of tools in front of him along with numerous wires. A visor had been lowered over his face, presumably to protect his eyes while the welding torch in his hand sprayed fire over something small that he held between metal prongs. Before she could get a clearer look, Ma had firmly pushed her into her own bedroom, closing the door to their stranger.

Emma changed into her night things and Ma tucked her in, planting a kiss on her forehead. However, Ma didn't go sleep then, instead disappearing behind the door. The girl sighed, shifted herself in the very empty bed. She could hear talking outside, but she fell asleep before making it out what any of it meant.

When she awoke, she woke to an empty bed. Did Ma come to sleep at all last night? She honestly didn't know. If she asked Ma, she would probably get a nagging about how she should learn to seize the day and wake up earlier too.

When she left Ma's room, she noted the dining room was cleared of all the strange objects she had seen the day before. Her mother was cooking breakfast, her brown hair tied up the way it had always been. She noticed her daughter's presence when the bedroom door hinges creaked. "Come sit, Emma. We don't want you to be late for school."

It was as if the strange incident last night hadn't happened. Emma would have believed that herself if she had noticed that her bedroom door was mysteriously shut. She wouldn't be surprised that she would find it locked if she tried the knob.

"Emma." Her mother's sharp tone drew her attention away from her bedroom. The plate carrying her pancakes clang against the table, right in front of her. Her mother was eyeing her meaningfully, as if she was going to talk about her room, but instead only said, "Eat your breakfast."

After the girl returned home from school, her mother sent her back out almost immediately. She was to return the clean laundry back to their owners and to collect soiled ones from other clients. By the time she reached home, she was very tired and did not argue when Ma sent her to bed. Again, she was sent to Ma's bedroom to sleep. Again, she did not see Ma go to bed, nor did she see more of the man called Mr. Bunnymund.

The next morning, she went to school as usual. Well, except that District 10 seemed more flooded with Peacekeepers than ever. They were marching around, bearing their guns, their opaque visors swerving left and swerving right. When they passed, Emma couldn't help but lower her head in fright. They ignored her, because in their eyes, she was just a stupid kid who didn't know anything. For once, she was glad for that.

She finished her chores early on that day, so it was early evening when she arrived back home. In her arms, she hauled the laundry basket. With no free hands, she kicked open the door.

Her sudden action however caused alarm for her guest, who raised the saucepan at her. He was not hidden away in her bedroom, as he had been before. When he realized it was just her, Mr. Bunnymund lowered the cooking utensil back onto the stove, where it belonged. He let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, it's just you."

Emma didn't speak. She didn't know if Ma allowed her to. For most part, she was supposed to pretend that their mysterious guest didn't exist. She kicked the door behind her, putting the basket of laundry down on the floor.

Mr. Bunnymund looked dirtier and scrappier than she saw him. He smelled quite unpleasant too, probably because he couldn't go to the bath house. It was a fifteen walk from their little cottage, so people might see him. Even if Ma were to bring in pails of water into the house for him to bathe, it would look suspicious, because everyone knew that they would usually go out to bathe. He seemed to be very uncomfortable with his state of cleanliness and the girl couldn't help but a little sorry for him.

He must have mistaken her expression of sympathy for questioning, for he then excused himself hastily, "I'm hungry."

Ah. Her mother must have had some secret was of sneaking food into his room at other times. Now that her mother wasn't home, that responsibility fell to her. Rolling up her sleeves, Emma marched up to the kitchen. She wasn't allowed to touch the stove, but she could look for other food he could eat without cooking.

There was some bread in cupboard - not much, just enough for one person. There was also some cheese and milk, which she handed to him. He accepted these offerings with thanks.

"You shouldn't be out here," she told him in a very serious voice that sounded more like her mother than herself.

He nodded in agreement, before retreating to her bedroom. Just before he closed it, Emma saw the suitcase, wires and tools strewn on the floor. Next to it, there was a radio and some books, all lying face open and filled with squiggles letters. Before she could ask about his belongings, the bedroom door was shut.

When Ma returned home, Emma did not bring up her encounter with Mr. Bunnymund. She doubted Ma would be happy to know that their guest had snuck out of his assigned quarters and even less that she had interacted with him. So she lied about the time she reached home. Her mother was pleased with the answer and cooked them dinner. It was then Emma noticed her mother quietly prepared an extra portion of the soup and poured it into another bowl. Ma didn't touch the bowl at all after that, letting Emma finish her food first. After that, she hustled her daughter back into the bedroom that they both now shared.

The girl pretended to follow her mother's instructions obediently, changing into her night clothes and climbing into bed. She lay still against the pillows, so Ma thought that she had fallen asleep. She heard Ma close the bedroom door behind her and knew that she had left the room. It was then that Emma threw off the covers and snuck silent as a ghost to the bedroom door.

Peeking through the cracks of the door, she saw Ma carry that extra bowl of soup to the other bedroom, knocking. The door opened and Ma went inside. The door was then pulled shut, but not completely. This was her chance.

Escaping her mother's bedroom, Emma crept towards her own bedroom door, hiding herself in the shadows. She dared a peep – just one peep – through the gap between the door and its frame. She saw Ma lay down the bowl on floor, next to where Mr. Bunnymund was working. He seemed to be joining some thin wires to a flat metal band of some kind. Emma had never seen such things and was amazed that the man knew precisely what to do with all of it.

Her mother however didn't seem very impress with her guest's work. "You're doing it wrong."

"What?" the man gazed up at her, confused.

"You shouldn't join it that way. You'll make it short-circuit instead. Here." Ma took the pliers and the complicated contraption. The girl's jaw almost dropped to Earth when she saw how quickly Ma threaded the wires through the contraption, looping it around in a certain manner that she didn't understand. She kneeled to get some of the scattered metal parts that were on the floor, fitting it into them into the contraption with practiced ease.

After a few minutes, Ma handed it back to the man, who staring at her too, completely astonished. He cleared his throat, before asking, "When did you learn how-"

"My father was an excellent engineer," was her mother's cool answer. Her eyes flicked down to the small, band like object. "You're making a teleportation device, aren't you?"

The incredulity over the man's face so stark that Emma wished she could paint it. Clearing his throat once more, he wheezed out, "Yes."

"Those are very dangerous," she warned. "And unpredictable."

"I don't have a choice," Mr. Bunnymund answered, taking the pliers back from her mother. He was starting to look at her with a new expression – admiration? "North and I intended it only for emergencies. It was damaged in the blast over his house."

"I see." Her mother was very quiet now, but Emma could almost hear her thinking. "How did you learn this technology?"

"North was the one who smuggled it from the Capitol. The foundations of the calculations were all done by Robert Callaghan. Do you know that name?" Her mother's expression was blank, prompting Mr. Bunnymund to explain, "He was one of the finest inventors and scientists of Panem. Before Lotso killed him, of course." He spat out a spite laugh. "He has a nasty habit of doing that to talented people."

"I suppose." Her mother sounded distracted.

"North struggled with to make anything feasible with it. It required a lot of power, and needed huge infrastructure. He sent it over to some contacts in District 3, thinking they might be able to do something with the formulas. They did, and sent us back the blueprints of their design." He held up the small half-completed contraption to Ma, eyes gleaming meaningfully. "A miniaturized, portable teleporter."

"Does it actually work?"

He shrugged. "I've heard that other prototypes have, but that's provided I can fix it back."

Silence fell over the room over for a moment as Mr. Bunnymund returned to his fiddling. Ma just sat on the bed and watched him. Seeing that they were not going to talk anymore, Emma decided to go back to Ma's bedroom. She was feeling rather sleepy now, anyway. Before she did, however, she cast a glance out of the window and was sorrowful to note that there was no moon tonight.

The next morning, she awoke remembering that today was the third day. After tonight, Mr. Bunnymund would leave.

Dressing herself in her night clothes, Emma went to open the bedroom door, only realizing that there were raised voices coming from outside.

"-intrusion here!"

"Move out of the way, woman!"

She saw her mother flung back by a Peacekeeper who came stomping into their house. The automatic resting in his arm was lifted, its nozzle pointed with purpose and threat. Behind him, another of the white-guards entered, also armed. He knocked his tall head against the short roof and let out a curse. Emma privately rejoiced in his pain.

"Emma." Ma had managed to catch herself on the table and didn't fall over. She was now gesturing frantically at her. "Come here."

She ran over to her mother, letting her hold her in tight embrace. As if that could protect her from a bullet.

One of the guards started snooping around in the kitchen, pointing his gun at everything and staring suspiciously at the cupboards before ripping them open. The other guard moved towards her mother's room. Even though she couldn't see what he was doing, it sounded like he was just overturning everything he could find. The girl gasped when she heard him ripping open the pillows. Anger boiled within her. Jack had been the one to make those pillows, and he had worked very hard on it.

"No, Emma." It was like her mother knew what she had in mind. She made Emma stand behind her and she herself moved around the dining table, out of the way of the Peacekeepers. The girl watched in bewilderment as her mother reached under the table and she heard a soft 'click' when something dropped in her mother's hand.

The Peacekeeper poking around the kitchen suddenly had his attention drawn towards the closed bedroom door. He spun about, heading towards it. Emma felt her heart thudding frantically and she gripped her mother's wrist tightly. She couldn't see Ma's expression, but she could feel her tensing up.

The Peacekeeper tried the knob, but it was locked. Emma knew that there was no chance anymore. Even if Mr. Bunnymund managed to climb out her small window, there was no way he took all his belongings with him. The Peacekeepers would find all strange devices, and the guns would swing to their direction instead.

The white-guard called for his companion, and both of them stood in front of the locked door. They ignore the two trembling females, because they are clearly the ones in power here. They rammed the butts of their weapons against on the door, breaking it open slowly but surely.

So they never noticed it when Ma suddenly raised her hand and shot a brilliant blue bolt towards one of them.

The Peacekeeper that she shot stumbled back, a dent visible on his helmet as he collapsed. His companion whipped around, but by then Ma had shifted her small, metallic-curved gun towards him. Before the soldier could even lift his weapon, she had fired a hole into his chest plate. He clutched against it, before too following his partner to the ground.

It was only then that Emma could release the breath she was holding. She stared at the two dead Peacekeepers, then back at her mother. Ma's expression was grim as she lowered the small gun in her hand. She took the girl's hand and pulled her along as she approached the locked the door. With the side of her arm, she rapped against the wooden. "Aster, get out!"

She heard the locks 'clink' before the door was yanked open. Mr. Bunnymund's head emerged. In his hand, she saw his welding torch, which he was probably going to use as a weapon. He gawked down at the fallen bodies of the Peacekeepers, then up to her mother and the strange-looking gun in her hand.

"Pack only what you need," Ma ordered him, letting go off Emma's hand briefly adjust something on her gun. "There'll be others soon."

He had questions, but he knew better than to ask them now. The girl watched his head disappear back into the bedroom. A few second later, Mr. Bunnymund emerged. He was carrying nothing in his hands, but he was now wearing a stash of egg-shaped boxes on in front of him. He covered this over with a coat, and in the coat, he pocketed the contraption and his welding torch. He nodded to her mother.

Her mother only grabbed a cloak for herself and a coat for Emma before they all departed the cottage. When they stepped off the porch of the cottage, it occurred to the girl that this might be the last time she'd ever see her home.

"They'll be searching all the houses around here," she heard Mr. Bunnymund say. "They're looking for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Ma snapped at him. "I'm sure they're here to sniff out all the rebels, not just you."

"What was that?" Mr. Bunnymund exclaimed as they hurried crossed the pastures, moving hastily to the forest. "Rather, where did you get that?" He jerked his head towards the gun that her mother was carrying.

Ma's answer was very matter-of-fact as she pocketed it. "I made it."

"You made it?" he repeated in utter disbelief. "But … how?" The shelter of the branches came over them now, hiding them from immediate sight. But the Peacekeepers searching the area would be able to find their footprints on the mud. They had to move quickly.

"I told you my father was an engineer." There was an odd look on Ma's face. "He taught me very well."

* * *

 **District 13**

"The Man in the Moon is dead."

Calhoun was considered herself a tough, ruthless soldier, whose emotions were kept tightly under wraps. It was not a choice – it was just programming. But the first time since she learned of her fiancée's death, a deathly chill struck her very core.

Not letting go of the injured boy, she demanded, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," the boy gasped, trembling in her grasp. "I don't know." His gaze started to wander. "Anna…oh, Anna, I need to get to-"

"You're not going anywhere until you explain things to me, young man!" she growled ferociously at him, forcing his focus back on to her. "How did you find 13? How did you learn about the rebellion? The Guardians symbol?"

He was as white as sheet, stuttering and befuddled. Reckoning that her method might have been too rough, Calhoun released the boy from her grip, panting as she tried to calm herself. In a calmer voice, she asked, "What's your name?"

The boy gulped. "Kristoff, m'am."

She had to be gentle. He might look like a ton of bricks, but with the way he was acting, he could snap any second and she would never get any answers. "Why don't you tell me how this happened, Kristoff?"

He shifted himself uncomfortably on the bed, eyeing her with distrust.

"Listen, squirt." Calhoun's patience was wearing thin. "I haven't got all day. If you want to see that Anna-friend of yours again, I suggest you cooperate."

The blonde lad let out a breath, running one of his needle-ridden hands through his dirty blonde hair. For a second, the soldier thought that he would zip up and she would have to try a more aggressive technique. But eventually, he began to speak, "Where to start? I could say it started with Pabbie, but it wasn't really. It really started with the 74th -"

She inhaled sharply. "The victor of District 12?"

He nodded, adding gravely, "He's dead."

No surprise there. Ever since she left the Capitol, she was no longer privy to as much details about the Rebellion as she had been, now that her focus was on District 13. Back then however, she had been allowed to know some identities of their contacts. Pabbie had been one of them – the only one left from District 12, in fact. "When?"

He frowned as he thought. "Two months ago? After the Victory Tour."

That was actually two and a half months. There hadn't been any messages from the Districts in that entire period. She cursed herself for not noticing that much earlier. She had been busy with matters in District 13, and long-distant monitoring of the Districts made her assume that they were just laying low until given the green-light. She was going to find which dolt oversaw communications and rain hell upon him.

"We went to check his house out – Anna and me. Anna's my-" he hesitated "-well, we're together."

 _Young love._ Calhoun grimaced. She nodded to indicate that she was listening.

"We found his secret room, with his radio and all these code books. We found out about District 13 and the rebellion. We found out to decipher the messages, but we never understood what they were for. Only much later we found another radio that we worked out Pabbie's job – he was supposed to pass the messages onto District 13. The problem was that Anna and I had no idea how to work a radio. We searched for a manual or something but-" he shrugged "-nope."

"We couldn't ask for help, because we knew that Peacekeepers would catch wind of it. We kept everything secret. We didn't know what to do with all the information. Till one day, we decoded an incoming message." He licked his lips. "It was from District 11. _'The Man in the Moon is dead. Code Red. Thirteen. Code Red.'_ Anna and I fought over it. She said that a man from the Capitol had mentioned that title once, back when they were still asking questions about her sister. If the Capitol was looking for this _'Man in the Moon'_ back then, he was probably important."

That made Calhoun widen her eyes. The Capitol was actively looking for 'Man-in-the-Moon'? When she was still in working undercover, it had only been rumour. Could it be a leak? She would have to investigate. And what was why was there someone inquiring after some District 12 girl's sister?

"We had a huge argument about what to do with the information. Anna felt that we had to let District 13 know somehow, and since we didn't know how to use a radio, well…"

* * *

" _We have to go to District 13."_

 _He stared at her. She was perfectly serious._

" _No," he finally said, shaking his head, taking the codebook from her hand. "No. It'd be suicide."_

" _Why not?" she argued. Anna grabbed the map that was lying on the table. "We have this that tells us precisely where it is. We could get there."_

 _Was she mad? No, wait. This was the girl that once tried to climb onto the top of the Hob for the fun of it. This was perfectly normal for her. Why did he like her again? Grabbing her by the shoulder, he told her, slowly, "We don't know what's out there, Anna! Crazy beasts, radiation-"_

" _Capitol propaganda," she shrugged off._

" _-and Capitol forces? I mean, the Capitol built the fences. What makes you think they won't prevent us from escaping them for a reason?"_

 _She went silent for a while, and he thought that he might have actually broken through to her. But then she spoke, full of resolve, "We have to try."_

 _He smacked himself in the forehead._

" _C'mon, Kristoff, the rebellion is counting on us," she pleaded, clasping her hands together._

 _He rolled his eyes, hissing at her, "We're not part of the rebellion!"_

" _Well, Pabbie was."_

" _And that's why they killed him!" He didn't know how to explain this to her. With all her family gone, it was easy for her to just make a decision like this. She had nothing to lose. But he still had people – his parents, his extended family - everyone who could and would be punished if his disappearance was discovered. Even worse so if they were discovered heading to District 13._

 _Even if District 13 really existed, if it could be a haven from the harsh rule of the Capitol, would he be able to leave his family behind in peace?_

" _Look," she huffed at him, sympathy welling in her eyes. Perhaps she did understand his concern more than he gave her credit for. "You don't need to come."_

 _She had a point, but he couldn't let her. Anna was brave, but he knew her well enough to know that she would never make it on her own. She was so thin, so impulsive, so... helpless – she'd kill herself. He had made a promise to her late sister, after all, that he'd look after her._

 _She didn't wait for him to give her an answer. She had already made her decision. "I'll go tomorrow night."_

" _So soon?" he gasped. That didn't give him much time ponder over this. "You're not thinking this through."_

" _If the message is urgent, they'll need to hear it as soon as possible," Anna insisted. She wasn't listening to him anymore – he didn't know if there was ever a time that she really did. Every inch of her screamed earnestness. "Someone has to go, Kristoff."_

 _Why did that someone have to be her?_

* * *

"We packed food, and anything that we'd thought we'd need. I took a pickaxe. Anna told me to make the badges – the ones with the 'G' on it." He jerked his head towards the small token threat she held in her hands. "We didn't know what it stood for, but we saw it around Pabbie's secrete rebellion things, so we figured that it'd help you guys to trust us." He reached a hand out to remove the blanket over his leg. She noted he had bandages plastered over them. He began to scratch against them. "We'd – we'd never left the district before. We didn't know what to expect."

"Did you tell your family where you went?" It wasn't a casual question. Calhoun wanted to know if there was anyone back in District 12 that he intended to return – any that might alert the Capitol that of the underground rebellion.

He shook his head, expression full of remorse. "I left notes for them the night they left. I kept it vague – saying that Anna needed to do something important, and I couldn't let her go it alone. I told them not to come after me. I'm nineteen after all." He let out a humourless laugh. "Practically a grown-man."

Calhoun eyed him with surprise. Considering his size and his appearance, she expected him to be much older – at least his late-twenties. But then again, one was forced to grow up quickly in the Districts.

"We crossed the fences at. The electricity's been out for years, but they switched it on recently. Luckily, I have a reindeer that could jump it, so we got through."

The lieutenant blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"A reindeer," Kristoff repeated. "He's called Sven."

"And he helped you two jump over a fence."

"Yes."

Incredulity was written all over her face. "With the both of you sitting on him?"

"It's true," he insisted.

Calhoun wasn't sure if she believed it, but told him, "Carry on."

"We started trekking through the forest using the map, taking turns to ride Sven and rationing our food and water. We didn't run into any beasts, but there were Peacekeepers out there. They flew in hovercrafts over the forests." His voice shook when he said it. "We managed to keep out of sight for most part. We travelled like that for about a week. A couple of times it rained, but we managed to find shelter. On one night, however, our food supplies got wet. We had to finish them up after that. The following days weren't good." The patient shuddered on his bed. "You have to understand. We're from a District of coalminers. We didn't know how to hunt, or forage, or anything."

"Yes." She did understand. Also another reason there were so few victors from the District 12.

"We probably would have died of starvation, I suppose, if we hadn't met some others along the way." Kristoff paused. "Not that we got along at first."

* * *

" _Don't move!" the girl warned him, pointing her big staff – no, paddle – at him. She wasn't very large in size – around Anna's height, actually. The mass of black curls streaming from behind her did make her look bigger though, but it didn't change the fact that she was threatening to hit him with a paddle of all things._

 _He made a grab for the paddle, yanking the girl forward as he did. He shook it, but the girl didn't let go. Instead, she kicked him back with surprising strength, making him tumbling back into the bush behind. It was a good cushion, but it didn't change the fact that now she had the upper hand. She advanced towards him, paddle in tow and teeth clenched._

" _Hey, you there!" Anna suddenly appeared from around, brandishing his pickaxe – so that's where it went - at his assailant. Sven appeared around the corner, blocking off the curly-haired girl's escape path. "No one threatens my boyfriend!"_

 _He couldn't help grinning a little. Trust Anna to come to his rescue in such a fashion._

 _Except that the curly-haired girl decided to charge at Anna with her paddle instead. The two girls began to frantic skirmish, axe against paddle, cursing each other. As Kristoff rose back to his feet and brushed off the leaves, he suddenly noticed another figure at the scene. He was carrying a large hook-like weapon under his tattooed arm, along with a net full of fish. His mouth fell open as he looked at the two screaming girls, then he turned to Kristoff._

 _Not sure what to do, the blonde boy waved – because it was perfectly normal to run into other people also travelling beyond the District fences. "Um, hey?"_

 _The other fellow - a big, muscular guy with crazy hair, like the other girl – stared at him for a while, before greeting back, "Hey."_

" _So, um, -" Kristoff dragged his foot along the ground awkwardly. His eyes darted down to the net of fish. His stomach grumbled._

 _The man had heard the sound too, then looked at the haul of fish in his arm. He hummed in thought as his gaze returned to the boy. "Want some?_

 _He tried not to sound too eager. "It'd be nice. I, I mean, we've-" thumbing Anna, who now rolling across the forest floor while trying to snatch away the other girl's paddle "-not eaten in a while – oh! Wow." The man tossed the entire net at him. Was he giving all the food to him? Just like that? "Really? All of it?"_

" _I can get more of it later," the big man announced cockily, tapping his giant hook. Kristoff wondered what it was made of. It didn't look like anything he'd ever seen in District 12. "You look really hungry."_

" _Wow!" He was amazed the generosity of this stranger. He glanced towards Anna and the other girl, who was probably the large man's companion. The two fighters were starting to slow down and were now largely reduced to shoving their weapons against each other. Sven, who hadn't really taken part in the whole event, just eyed them with a look that said, 'Reindeers are better than people – that includes in sanity.'_

 _Kristoff chose then to focus back on the big man with the hook as he scooped up the net. He was completely sincere when he said, "Thank you."_

" _What can I say?" the stranger answered, grinning as he puffed his chest out proudly. "You're welcome."_

* * *

"Maui and Moana were running from District 4," the boy told her. "Moana's grandmother, Tala, was part of the rebellion before she passed away. She was the one who told them about District 13. Moana's family had been arrested by Peacekeepers during a raid. She's the only one who escaped." Kristoff halted his tale to reach for the cup of water position at the table next to his bed.

Seeing that it was out of his reach, Calhoun picked it up and handed it to him. He accepted it gratefully. "Maui himself was part of the rebellion once, before he gave up on it. He didn't think that much of District 13, but Moana convinced him to take her there – here, I mean. I don't know how, but she did."

"Anyway, so we became travelling companions. Maui was very good at fishing and navigating with constellations. He taught Moana some, and Anna too – navigation, I mean. I learned fishing, because it was less boring. Things really looked up then. We were so sure that we'd make it, but then-" he hesitated, eyes starting to become unfocused. His lips pressed themselves together.

She didn't need him to say it. She could see it in his gaze. "It was the Capitol, wasn't it?"

The boy didn't look at her, staring down at the bandages across his leg, running all the way up to his chest. His voice was unusually small. "It was so sudden."

* * *

 _Fire swept through the forest, smoke thick and fierce. He clenched his teeth together, hoping that adrenaline would help him bear with it. He didn't want to look at the burn on his leg. If he didn't, he couldn't pretend that it was much better than she expected._

 _He propped himself up from the ground, coughing. Smoke stinging his eyes and hot air around him was attacking his lungs. "Anna?" he called. "Sven?"_

 _His faithful reindeer emerged from the smoke, appearing largely unharmed from the spray of flame that had unexpectedly descended upon them. Scampering over to Kristoff, Sven immediately lowered his head, offering his antler to the boy._

" _Thanks, buddy." He grabbed onto the antler and allowed the reindeer to pull him back to his feet. The fumes were getting thicker. He needed to find the others._

" _Kristoff!" He found himself unexpected tackled by a fierce hug. Small, thin arms from a familiar body clutched him. The worry in his heart was replaced by relief and he clung to her, pressing her into him. He breathed her in. Anna was okay. She was okay._

 _Behind her followed the two District 4 runaways, with Moana having her arm wrapped over Maui's shoulder. She was clutching her abdomen as the big man hustled her forward with a gentleness unexpected from a person his size. Maui himself had bruises on his face and scrapes on his tattooed chest, but did not seem worse for wear._

" _We have to keep moving," he shouted to them. His eyes went heavenward, wary. "They'll circle around any second to check for survivors. Use the smoke for cover."_

 _Kristoff nodded while Anna hooked her own under his. He was much bigger than her however, and her attempted to support his weight didn't help much. He didn't have the heart to discourage her though, so he let her accompany him as they hobbled through the blazing forest, Sven following close behind._

 _The world seemed to be in shades of red and black today. Trees were crumbling around them, soot flying everywhere and smoke threatening to fill their lungs. He pulled his shirt up to cover his nose and he saw his companions do the same. He glanced behind him. The fire was creeping closer. If they didn't escape the region soon enough, they would be surrounded by the flames._

" _Anna." He removed her arm from him, gazing up the dark sky with fear. "You have to go on without me."_

" _Don't be silly. Now's not the time for dramatics." She tried to slide her arm back under his, but he stopped her._

 _Kristoff glanced up ahead. The District 4 pair were moving much faster than they were, but that was because Maui was much stronger and his companion was a small, light girl. His own leg was stinging madly and he couldn't move any further._

" _Take Sven and go with them, Anna," he told her, trying to sound authoritative. "I'm only slowing you down."_

 _She groaned at him, rolling her eyes, turning to the reindeer instead. "Sven, can you please give your best friend a kick in his head? Because he needs it."_

" _Anna." The fires were flanking them now. This was no time for arguing. "Don't be unreasonable."_

" _Unreasonable?" she scoffed, before addressing the reindeer again, "Sven, why don't you give h-"_

 _Suddenly, the smoke was blown away and the flames dispersed. A rush of air flooded them from above, making their clothes and hair flap around. Their heads jerked up at once and Kristoff felt his chest tighten._

 _Over them flew the hovercraft with the Capitol insignia. They had been found._

" _Run!"_

* * *

"Moana was the first down. I don't know where they got her, but she took it really bad."

* * *

 _The curly-haired girl, so strong and determined before, was screaming in pain as she crumpled to the floor. Her large companion swore before picking her up, large muscular arms curling around her small, twisted form. Blood was seeping through her clothes and her eyes tightened in a wince._

 _Fierce protectiveness gave him strength he didn't know. Picking Anna off her feet, he tossed her onto the reindeer. "Sven! Get her out of here!"_

" _What? No!" She made a grab at him, but he dodged it. "Kristoff, you idiot! You don't get to play he-"_

" _Please." Something in tone must have gotten to her, for she stopped struggling against him. She stared down at him._

 _He licked his lips. The smoke had dried out his throat and his voice sounded hoarse. "You have to bring the message. You know what it is, right?"_

 _They hadn't written it down, just in case the Capitol had killed them and examined their bodies. She nodded, before repeating it to him in a trembling voice, "The Man in the Moon is dead."_

" _Okay, let's-" his eyes suddenly caught sight of something glistening darting down from the sky, down towards -_

* * *

"Maui – he-" he closed his eyes "-there was this hook thing that shot out of the hovercraft? I don't know what it's called but it-it-it-"

* * *

 _Blood splattered everywhere. The big man stared at the giant grappling hook that had plunged itself into through his tattooed chest. The injured girl in his arms screamed as he let her go. As her bleeding body rolled back onto the ash-covered ground, the hook from the hovercraft retracted itself, bringing Maui's limp body back with it._

* * *

"I went to Moana. She was bleeding very badly. One of the bullet hit her near the heart. But before I knew it, Anna-" his voice broke suddenly, his face crumpling. "Anna, she-" he swallowed "-they started firing again, and we tried to take cover, and then-" Kristoff suddenly buried his face in hands, big form appearing surprisingly frail. "Oh, God, Anna. I'm so sorry. _I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry. I couldn't- she was-_ "

Calhoun lifted an awkward hand towards the boy. She could tell that the events had really taken a toll on him. Still, she wasn't exactly well-versed in comforting people. Clapping awkwardly on his shoulder, she said, "You did your best. At least she's alive."

"You don't know that," he whispered, removing his hands from his face.

She frowned at him, puzzled. "Yes, I do, in fact. As we speak, your …friend is undergoing treatment. District 13 mightn't have Capitol's standards, but we're good." As an afterthought, she added, "She'll get better."

"No, you don't get it." He swung abruptly towards her, eyes full of guilt that no man – boy, really – his age should ever have to bear. "The girl who arrived here with me is Moana, not Anna."

The blonde soldier took a step back. From the looks of it, this lad had only arrived with one other companion. That meant that the other one –

"What happened to her?"

* * *

" _Kristoff!" Her small hand reached for his._

" _Anna!" He darted forward, but his injured leg betrayed him. He couldn't – no, he couldn't._

 _The metallic prongs that wrapped itself Anna's form dragged off the ground, making her scream as she was lifted into the air. Her braids flew back as her body was pulled towards the hovercraft, disappearing under its steel base. His heart sank to his stomach._

" _No, no, ANNA!"_

* * *

"The Capitol will kill her," he whispered, face unusually pale and body rigid. "If they haven't already. Or they'd torture her." He suddenly grabbed her hand, making Calhoun startle. "You have to let me out there." His eyes were wild. "I need to – I need to-" he scrambled for words, breathing too rapidly to be normal, murmuring, "Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. _Anna-"_

Fortunately, the doctor, who must have been monitoring things outside, came rushing back in. "Alright, Lieutenant," he sounded irritated, clambering towards the bed. "I think you've done quite enough."

"He's all yours," was her answer, prying Kristoff's fingers off her wrist. She spun around. The president had to be informed off this news.

"No, wait! Don't go!" the blonde boy called for her, but the Lieutenant paid him no mind. She had things to do and the medical staff could attend to him. "The Capitol still has Anna." She moved towards the door and it opened for her. "PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU! SAVE HER! SAVE ANNA!"

Soldier Reckit was still waiting outside, as she had ordered him to. He saluted at her, before his eyes darted towards the delirious, screaming patient inside the ward. His gaze flickered back to her, awaiting instructions.

"Go to bed, Reckit," she told him, straightening her uniform. She rolled her shoulders back. "I'll tell the President the news myself."

"Yes, m'am," he answered smartly.

Calhoun marched down the infirmary, rolling her shoulders back. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

"So that's it. Another Man-in-the-Moon gone."

"That's what it seems, sir."

The dark-skinned President of District 13 mulled over this for a moment, pacing up and down the council room, his leather cloak dragging behind him. The Lieutenant waited silently in attention for orders.

Finally, President Bludvist asked, "Was a successor chosen prior to …"

Calhoun shook her head. "If there were a successor, the MiM would have given us details of how to contact him."

"One of our key-players eliminated. Just like that." He was very matter-of-fact about it. There was no point faking grief, for the President and the leader of the Rebellion had never gotten along very well. But the fact remained that allies, even despised ones, were allies, and with MiM gone and no successor in sight, there could be no consolidated effort against the Capitol in the Districts. Unless…

"Lieutenant." The blonde woman straightened herself at the naming of her rank. "I think we'll need to activate 'Wild Card'."

She blinked in surprise. "Are you certain, sir?"

"We have no choice," he spoke in a grim whisper, flexing his good hand before clenching it. "Order Hamada to have the system ready in twelve hours – even if you have to put a gun at his head." He paused briefly as a stray thought came to mind. "The mutant – is she ready?"

Calhoun frowned. "She has accepted the task, yes, but I don't honestly think she's-"

"She has no choice. We have no choice. The Capitol has forced our hand." President Bludvist scowled as he gazed down on the holographic map of Panem. "With our usual radio communications non-functional, we would need to find another way to get to the rebel cells in the Districts, even if it means dropping new radios from the sky."

The Lieutenant nodded, mentally noting all that needed to be done. "And for District 13, sir?"

He did not speak immediately, for even a man who had seen as much battle and violence as Drago Bludvist was not completely desensitised to it all. He held silence for a moment, almost in reverence of the gravity, but eventually, he spoke, because he had to.

"We go to war."

* * *

 **S/N:**

 **The segment on Kristoff and Anna running to District 13 is inspired by two subplots that were in The Hunger Games books, but not in the movie. The first subplot was about Katniss witnessing a boy and a girl being captured by a hovercraft while on the run outside the District fence. The boy is killed (like Maui) while the girl is captured (like Anna). Katniss later meets the girl, only that she has become an Avox. The other subplot is when Katniss meets a pair of women running from District 8 to District 13. They don't make it.**

 **The money transaction that Bunny and Mrs. Overland were talking about refers to the part in the Odds of Five where Bunny gave Mrs. Overland some of the leftover money from Jack's sponsors during the Games. Also, Mrs. Overland is not what she seems.**

 **I never really meant to introduce any Moana characters in the story, so having them here was mostly just for cameo. Since Moana survived, she might appear a bit more. Other than that, don't expect too much from it.**

 **Up next: WE ARE AT WAR PEOPLE. Sort of.**

* * *

 **I really do take forever to update this. Geez.**

 **Guest Review Mailbox:**

 **Yourtruly (Jul 26): Glad that you really liked The Odds of Five. I'm afraid to admit as a sequel, this story is not quite the same level as it predecessor, but I hope it stays entertaining all the same. Haha, I have contemplated the Pirates of Caribbean AU long and hard, but never quite managed to write it out properly haha. It's one difficult AU.**

 **Guest (Jul27): Thanks for the encouragement. Continuing this story, I admit, is a bit tough.**

 **Well, that's all for now.**

 **Critique. Review. Ask Questions.**


	14. Chapter 12: Delusions, Dreams, Demons

_Previously on the Wrath of Five:_

 _District 13:_

 _Kristoff has arrived severely injured with a girl that is_ _not_ _Anna. He tells Lt. Calhoun that 'Man-in-the-Moon', a Rebellion leader based in Panem's Districts, is dead._

 _Other than that, nothing is up much with our heroes here:_

 _-Merida's still has issues with guns, despite being an excellent sharp shooter._

 _-Ralph is still in special forces, and happened to be hospital duty at a certain patient's ward (coughs)._

 _-Hiro is working on a programme that may turn the tide of the Rebellion – if his health doesn't kill him first._

 _-Hiccup and Toothless are adjusting find in the Dragon Sanctuary, but his superior, Valka Vogstein, has issues with none other than President Bludvist himself._

 _-Elsa has agreed to be the 'Snow Queen', a figurehead for the Rebellion, in exchange for Anna being brought safety to the District ASAP. Naturally, Calhoun hasn't told her about Kristoff._

 _Elsewhere in Panem:_

 _District 5: Since Chapter 10, all we know so far is that Elinor has been quietly abducted from the District while Fergus Dunbroch has led his district into a full-fledged offensive on the Capitol._

 _District 10: Nicholas St. North is dead. Bunnymund is on the run with Emma and Mrs. Overland, who seems to display a rather curious skill-set, involving but not limited to constructing firearms._

 _And now we go to the Capitol, where Flynn, with his new revelation on Rapunzel's possible survival, is taking steps…_

~~~0~~~

 **Capitol**

 **Ministerial House**

Drawn were the curtain. Locked were the doors. The room had been checked not once, not twice, but three times for recording devices of any kinds, but that didn't mean there was no risk. The Capitol hauled up the latest technology for a strategic reason that neither company had intentions of falling prey too.

"There had better be a good reason for all this, Rider," the politician sitting behind the desk groused. "I don't exactly enjoy being told to give my staff a day off and clear my schedule for fun."

"You'll thank me once it's over." Eugene was quite unfazed by Minister Corona's less-than-enthused manner. He sat down on his seat, eyes darting back and forth. Finally, he asked, "What do you know of healing serums?"

One bushy brow on the minister's face was raised. "Serums? You're here to talk about cosmetics with me?"

"Not the beauty-products." He shook his head. "I mean actually healing serums. Immortality pills. _Panaceas_."

Slowly, the expression on Minister Corona's face morphed into one of intrigue. "A cure for all ills? Hmm." He rubbed the bottom of his bearded chin. "Well, there've always been rumours that the President had been funding research for such, but as far as anyone knows, they haven't been successful. He might have aged pretty well, but the President's still aging. Everyone knows that whether he likes it or not, one day he'll have to choose a successor."

"Yes, I'm sure Lotso loves the idea of passing his power to someone else," Eugene murmured dryly to himself, before addressing the minister once again. "A tidbit of intel has been made known to me that that the panacea might be soon made a reality – and in such excess, such that some will even be made available for the military."

"That's impossible," the Minister began, before he promptly stopped. He then narrowed his eyes down to the young man seated across him, a peculiar mien painted up the contours of his haggard countenance. "What do mean ' _a tidbit of intel'_?"

Eugene went silent.

That however in itself was an answer, for the politician then drew back, horror etched over his features. "You're part of the rebellion, aren't you?"

"Don't questions if you don't want to know the answers, sir," was the curt reply. He folded his arms pointedly.

Clearing his throat, the Minister glanced uneasily about the empty room. "So, this bit of inte- I mean, information that you've gotten – what interest do I have in it?"

"You and I both know of a certain something, or should I say, _someone_ who could be the source of such a healing serum."

Minister Corona squinted incredulously at him as the implication hit him. "You surely don't mean-"

Eugene nodded.

"But that would mean that she-" he didn't dare finish the sentence, as if saying it would dash all chances of it being true. He then shook his head sharply. "No, it's impossible."

"No, it makes perfect sense," the younger man argued. "It's hardly a secret that Lotso would live forever if he could, so why would he kill his only opportunity of doing so? Don't you see?" He dragged his chair forward, body leaning front. "It makes more sense for her to be alive than not."

"You're assuming that it isn't just her, well, _body_ that's their studying." The older fellow was quite ill-at-ease to describe the girl in question in this manner.

"I doubt they'd risk killing her. Her power might be dependent on her being alive, after all," Eugene mused, rising from the seat as he began pacing across the room. "But they'd have to keep her secure, so that she can't escape. And she'd definitely to tried to escape. At least-" he frowned deeply "-until the consequences catch up with her."

"But, if she has been alive, all this time-" the Minister's eyes widened "-she would have been held captive for over-"

"Eight months." He stopped at his tracks, frozen by this terrifying revelation. "Eight whole months a prisoner of the Capitol."

Both men went absolutely quiet, with the older massaging his temples, elbow rested against the desk, while the younger scratched his goatee in silent thought.

Eventually, the lull was broken by Eugene declaring, "We have to get her out. Who knows what they're doing to her." And 'they' being the Capitol granted them zero optimism in his book.

" _If_ she's still alive at this point," the Minister supplied gravely as he rubbed his forehead. "Who can say for sure at this point?"

"The tip I got was recent news. If the healing serum has yet to be created, then she'll have to alive. Definitely." Eugene rolled his shoulders back uncomfortably. "She just mightn't be the same."

He sat himself back down the chair once again, gazing at the brooding minister. "Look, sir, if she's alive, I'll get her out. But I need to find her first. So if you know anything – _anything_ – that could make my job easier, I need you to tell me."

Minister Corona didn't reply at once, shoving himself off his feet. He let out a deep sigh as he dragged his feet towards the covered window. Eugene couldn't see his expression from this angle, so he leaned forward a little, trying to get a better view.

The politician then broke the silence. "You're going to tell whatever I tell you to the Rebellion, aren't you?"

"I'm not going to deny or confirm whatever you've said."

The Minister hesitated, slowly towards him. In a low voice, he said, "You know that the Capitol keeps a large number of its prisoners in the Undergrounds, right?"

Eugene nodded.

"There's a special department that they have called the 'Butterfly Room', designated for the most sort of revolutionary research. It's one of the most highly guarded facilities in all of the Capitol. Getting passes in there is nearly impossible."

The younger man nodded. He had heard of it from his various 'patrons', but never managed to learn the kind of things that happened down there.

"I only know of the lab's existence because I once had a colleague who was assigned in that department. An intelligent fellow, working with som dangerous chemistry research. He-" the Minister began fiddling with the golden sun medallion that hung over his chest "-he saved my wife's life, and my daughter's, but paid bitterly for it." There was a note of guilt in that.

Eugene only lifted his brows in surprise.

Minister Corona let go off the medallion, pulling back the chair as he sat himself down again. "Arianna had a difficult pregnancy. As a result, it was almost certain that we would lose the child, or-" he let out a long exhale "-or I'd lose her. At that point, we were desperate enough to try anything. And when this colleague of mine heard of it, he produced this strange drug - he asked Arianna to drink it. What we didn't know at the time was that the drug was highly classified substance from his workplace."

"The Butterfly Room," Eugene guessed.

"Yes." The older man shut his eyes and the side of his head once again. "Obviously, he wasn't supposed take such a substance out of the lab, much less give it to anyone. But because of that, Arianna's health improved and our daughter – our little girl – she lived."

"And they took her away after that."

"Yes." It was clear that this tale brought him much pain. "The Capitol seems to have a particular fondness for taking things from me – my friend, and then my daughter." His tone was full of bitterness.

"Hmm." The younger man had a wry smile on his face. "With that talk like that, sir, I'm starting wonder if you're part of the Rebellion yourself."

Minister Corona shot him a dark look, before grabbing a small slip of paper from his desk and scribbling down something. He handed it over to Eugene, who read it quietly.

' _The Eden Project,'_ was what it said.

"If you can find out what happened to that project, you might be able to find out what happened to her. It's not much, but it might give you some place to start."

"I'll look into it," Eugene promised, rising from his seat and tucking the slip of paper in his pocket. He shook the older man's hand. "Thank you, sir."

The Minister said nothing in return, merely heading back towards the covered window. The younger man took it as his cue to leave, and he did, eager to get back to work. With the company gone, Minister Corona drew back the curtains and sighed as he gazed over out of the Silver City; the flickering lights, the dazzling displays, the hordes of colourful people.

And somewhere – somewhere below it, his little girl was trapped, held captive by his masters, and there was nothing he could do.

So he prayed to whatever gods there might be that it would not be too late, before heading out of his office to the drawing room, where his wife was doing her reading as usual.

He said nothing to her; no words of hope, no platitudes of comfort. She had born quietly with the pain over the years, and any promises that he couldn't guarantee would be as kind as twisting a knife in her chest.

So he spoke nothing, just sat by her side and began reading his own leather-bound volume.

~~~0~~~

 **Capitol Undergrounds**

 **Butterfly Room**

If evil had a face, she would know it.

For evil shied from the sun, from the light. It dwelled the sewers, the gutters, the darkest recesses of the human mind. It feasted on shame and humiliation, thriving on agony and despair. Evil donned itself in cold white uniforms and shady blue masks, hiding its piercing eyes under reflective goggles. Its claws were not hidden behind sterilised rubber gloves, nor the bite of its teeth hidden under the rubber tubes and the metal cuffs. It bound her in ropes of hopeless and choked her with the bitterness of her own tears. It had gnawed her from the insides for so long that she was but a hollow shell, where evil's song would sing and hum, and hiss, _"Flower gleam and glow,-"_

In the silence, she often heard things.

In silence, she often was, these days. For silence was her constant companion in her daily walks around her cylindrical cell. She would tell silence hello, and silence would say naught, and then she would ask silence how do you do, and silence would echo her back her words in a manner only describable as ugly and wrought.

Somethings, the silence would give her things to play with, like ghostly figments that would hover over her and follow her around on her daily walks. Sometimes they would tell her things, about people beyond the walls, about people whose names she had forgotten and faces that she had could barely recall. They would tell her to hold on, to wait, to hope. Then on others days, they would tell her how everyone has forgotten her, or that no one has forgotten her because they had never known her, and she was alone.

She was alone.

All alone.

With her ghosts, and her silence, and … evil.

It watched.

It waited.

It was a predator, camouflaged in the dark, prowling about.

It didn't have to watch. It didn't have to wait. But it did. Because it wanted to.

It wanted to see her break.

It wanted to see her shatter.

It wanted to see her succumb into the loneliness, not realising that she had already been consumed and that it was just prowling after an empty shell.

" _-Need another sample-"_

" _-healing factor has been on steady decline. We can't figure out-"_

" _Flower, gleam and glow-"_

" _-trial 232, patient has not responded well to 1mmg dose of iron argonite. Proceed to trial 233-"_

" _-let your power shine-"_

But there was no power where there was no light. Because there was no light when there was dark. And when there was dark, evil was always there.

"Hello?"

What was that?

"Hello, is there anyone there?"

That was a new voice – at least, it sounded like that to her. She had to admit her skills of recognition had been on a steady deteriorate.

"Hello," she answered at last. Her voice was soft and coarse, her jaw moving against each other with the silkiness of sand paper. "How do you do?"

"Oh, there's someone there!" The voice sounded very relieved. It was light, feminine and youthful, marred only by fear and trembling. "Well, it's good not to be alone."

She merely shrugged, or at least, shrugged as much as her bindings allowed her too. The doctors who had fastened her to the bed had taken to being very judicious in how they tied her up, especially when she was taken out of the cell, like she was right now. But then, since it was just one of those imaginary voices in her head, she reckoned that this visiting figment would know that she was shrugging anyway. "That depends. Sometimes the company can terrible."

"Oh, I won't be bad company. I promise." The voice echoing around the dark medical centre sounded like it was pleading. "Just – just keep talking to me, please?"

She stared up to the black ceiling, listening to the hum of the machines in the distance. If she closed her eyes and focused, she'd be able to hear the screams. So she didn't close her eyes, continued staring up ahead and said to her imaginary companion, "Okay."

"T-thank you," the other voice blubbered gratefully. It sounded as if it had been crying. "It – it feels like ages since I've talked to anyone, you know?"

She didn't really have anything to say, because sometimes having no one to talk to was much better than having someone who always stuck around saying horrid, cruel things to her. She wondered if her new little friend knew that.

"We're at the Capitol, aren't we?" the floating voice whimpered, sniffing a little. "I'd thought it'd be prettier. I mean, on TV, it was always so bright and shiny." It sniffed again. "But since I've got here, all I see are just-just white walls-" _sniff_ "-and masked people-" _sniff_ "-and needles. So many needles." She could even pretend to hear her invisible companion shuddering.

"You'll get used to it," she tried to console the disembodied voice. It felt a little silly, comforting herself, but it was a bit better than yelling and screaming at herself. "I've been here much longer, and I'm alright. I think I've got-" she tried to squint at her in the darkness "-twenty needles stuck in me, I think, and four tubes. It doesn't feel so bad."

"Oh, okay," the distant voice sounded a little subdued, and maybe a little less frightened. She heard a throat clearing, before the quiet voice asked her, "My name's Anna, by the way."

"Oh." This was the first time any of her funny visitors had provided themselves a name. She was usually the one who had to give them one, like 'Ugly Face', or 'Wolf Head', or 'Lady with Curly Black Hair', or 'Snake Man'. "Hello Anna."

"What about you? What's your name?"

She swallowed hard, scrunching her face up as she tried to remember. At last, she said, "I think it's some kind of flower, but I can't remember what it is."

"You can't remember?" The voice sounded shocked, then sad. "That's awful. I'm so sorry about that."

"It's okay," she answered lightly. "I don't really need it that much."

"Well, you can't go without a name," her formless friend told her, astounded by her nonchalant dismissal. "What do they call you around here?"

She paused, her forehead wrinkling as she struggled to remember. At last, she said, slowly, "They refer to me as _Eden Project 2.0_."

She heard the voice humming a little, as if in thought. "Well, how 'bout I call you Eden till you can remember your real name, huh?"

She was a little surprised by this odd suggestion. "Oh. Okay."

There was silence for a while, as she continued to stared listless up in darkness. For so long, she had already lost sense of time. She knew at some point the masked people will return for her, to stabbed more things into her body or pull the threads of her very long, very yellow hair, but when that would be, she didn't know.

"Eden?" the voice, timid, disrupted her thoughts.

Admittedly, she was surprised to hear the voice again. After the lull, she had thought that this friend had made its departure. "Yes?"

"Do you have any idea why they brought me here?"

She, who apparently now dubbed Eden, wrinkled her nose. "Well, I don't know. But I guess if you're here, maybe they want something from you?" She didn't know what was the point of continuing this conversation, since her anxious little visitor wasn't really here, so clearly the doctors here wouldn't care about it because, well, it didn't exist.

The voice that had called itself 'Anna' did seem to like this answer. "What could they possibly want? I mean, I don't have very much."

"Well, maybe you have a talent, or information," Eden offered blandly. She was honestly getting quite tired – probably something to do with the drugs entering her system. They did pump an awful lot of them in her, and those drugs often had some funny effects. "Or maybe they just want to torture you for fun."

"Torture? For fun?" Anna whispered, sounding thoroughly horrified.

"Don't worry. They don't do that very often," she assured her fictitious companion, her eyes drawing shut. "Keeping prisoners here is pretty expensive, so they never keep anyone who isn't worth their time. It's some kind of-" she let out a long yawn, instinctively trying to stretch herself and being unable to because the straps holding her down "-investment, you know, when you keep someone alive."

"Wait." Her figmental companion was audibly distressed, if her long-drawn gasp was anything to go by. "So you mean … they'll kill me if there's no use for me?"

"Yep." She smacked her lips together, relaxing her weight against the tense operating table under her. "I'm sorry, Anna, but I'm really tired, so I can't talk to you anymore."

"What? No! Wait!" The voice in her ear was frantic, but she was exhausted. The chemicals in veins were making her drowsy and the blackness dancing behind her eyelids was already starting to swallow her in, lifting her into a haze. "Please don't leave me alone! I-I-I need know! How can I keep them from killing me? I don't want to die! Please, please, please Eden!" The voice was begging so hard that it almost sounded real. "Tell me what to do!"

"T-there'ssszzz-" her words were slurring as her mind began to shut down "-nothhhhinnngg you can-"

And unconsciousness flooded over her.

"Eden?"

Silence answered.

" _Eden_?" A tad more frantic.

Silence continued its song.

The owner of the voice whispered a small 'oh', before sinking back to the bed that she had been strapped in. The void of light frightened her, and she didn't like how the binds held her in place. She didn't like the emptiness of silence, and she didn't like the weight of evil pressing down on her.

But the thing was, silence didn't care if she hated its company, and evil didn't care if she hated its oppression. Because she was just a small, weak girl from District 12, and she had no idea what to do and she was scared. Just really, really scared.

When she wept in the darkness, silence listened.

And evil? Oh, evil was having a field day.

~~~0~~~

It was a very simple trade, actually. Jack did whatever he was told, and they would let him sleep. He did something new, and they would let him eat. If he did neither, very simply, he would be deprived of those two commodities.

At the start, it had been easy to figure new skills. He had worked out to how to change a shower of snow into hail, which had earned him a measly piece of brown bread. Then, he had worked out how to control the intensity of wind-bursts that he made, earned him a bowl of unseasoned cabbage soup. When he proved that he could fly at will, that earned him his first taste of meat.

But with time, the learning curve grew steeper. The variety of skills he could display narrowed rapidly, and so did his waistline. To be fair though, he was not malnutritioned – they didn't want that of their lab rat to starve on them. No, they would feed him, through a horrible tube that fit down his nose, and with that tube, they'd pour in the gooey mush of sustenance right down. The thing about it, however, was that they couldn't keep the tube down him – nope, his natural body temperature would freeze it down. Which meant that every time they fed him in such a method, they had to strap him down and stick the tube through his nose and down his gullet, then after they've dumped in his nutrients, they had to remove the tube. It wasn't painful - not exactly. It was just very uncomfortable, like swallowing a ball of barb wire.

He hadn't tasted food in his mouth for the last two weeks, despite having a perfectly working jaw.

As he wandered aimlessly around the ice-laced dome that was his enclosure, he knew that he was being actively watched. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were watching his every move, waiting for him to do something new.

He didn't have anything new though, so, deciding that he might as well enjoy himself whilst out of the narrow, water-filled case that was his usual residence, decided to practice making icicles on the wall.

As it turned out, he wasn't very good at it. Don't get him wrong; he _could_ make icicles, dozens of them in fact, with the sheer force of his mind, but he didn't know how to make them individually, nor how to design each icicles precisely to what his mind imagined. The powers that pulsed under his skin – it seemed to have a mind of its own. He could start it, stop it, direct it sometimes, but he couldn't tell it how it should manifest itself. If the icicle decided to extend itself into a full on stalagmite however, he couldn't stop it, and a part of him even felt that trying to stop it was … _wrong_.

It was like last time, his 'tamer' of the day had shown him a geometric shape and told him, "Make a snowflake with exactly this shape."

He couldn't. He could make a million snowflakes snow down with the flick of his wrist, but he couldn't intentionally craft something like that. Needlessly to say, he had no sleep that night. Day. Whatever it was. He couldn't really tell.

He knew that they hated the lack of precision in his powers. He wasn't a fool. He knew that those people in their white coats and white masks had a goal, and their goal involved controlling him, and it was pretty difficult to control someone who had issues controlling themselves.

" _Weak."_

Jack's head jerked up, a rapid chill suddenly running over his skin. The spherical enclosure around him had melded into crystal-cut walls, the lights suddenly dimming. He was no longer standing, but his knees. And the reason for his position came in the form of thick chain, made entirely of ice. Something tightened the chain, making him gag as he was dragged forward. Mocking blue eyes peered down at him behind their long lashes, before he felt a hard blow across his face. He gasped as the heat of strike spread from flesh into bone.

" _You're weak,"_ his captor sneered at him. _"You are nothing."_

Another blow came up his stomach. He groaned, clutching the wounded area.

" _You can't even do the one simple thing I asked of you,"_ she hissed at him, her cold voice sending shivers all the way into his heart, rattling its fragile walls. _"Useless little worm."_ She brought the heel of her pointed shoe down on his hand, ignoring his yelp of pain as she snarled, _"The task I had given you had better be completed by the time I return, or else-"_

She released his hand, and he was weeping as he cradled his bleeding palm. Under her burning gaze, he felt so small, so helpless just as she had said. Yet, humiliation and agony gave rise to another. He could feel something bubbling – strong, fierce, _dark._ He stared at the back of her intricately ornamented blonde head, and the desire to crack her skull had never had such appeal.

He stretched out his uninjured hand towards her and screamed.

White light came first, sparkling and cracking with energy. Within it thrummed cold, beating frosty hate and icy loathing. Snow flew everywhere around him. Ice swarmed about, swerving to his needs. The wind had morphed into a gust, intent on smashing itself down on any that there to stand on its way.

It was only then that he had realised that the crystal walls, and with them, the haughty queen. Instead, he stood in the center of his spherical enclosure, with half the walls tumbling down and the other half having been ripped into ribbons. He hadn't realised when he had started breathing heavily and quickly, but he had, and he clutched against his chest, against the scars of the sutures and the heart thumping behind them.

"A force of nature."

He whipped himself around, and found himself staring up at the viewing point of his enclosure, which had previously been hidden under a series of tampered glass. There, amongst the researchers stood the Man in the Black Cloak. He was gazing back down on Jack, right down his sharp nose, his brows furrowed together.

Eventually, the tall, thin man ordered his subordinates, "Return him to his cell."

Instantly, fury replaced the confusion. Jack gritted his teeth together as armed operatives came pouring through the entrance, the barrels of their slotted guns pointing at him. He barely needed to think before a thunderous crack of air slammed against their armoured bodies, slamming their heads against the peeling walls. With a twist of his palm, he shot a sharp shower of ice towards the next squad that came rushing in, making the victims of his assault screech when their skin was slathered with crimson scratches. His wiry arms stretched forward towards the doorway and he formed a torrent, blasting away any other who dared come his way. His gaze went up to the glass observation deck, from the alarmed expressions of the researchers to the cool visage of the man in the dark cloak.

Using a barrage of snow to seal off entrance to his enclosure, the boy with white hair shot himself up the ground, throwing the full force of his body against the glass. Immediately, his body bounced back and he grimaced as he felt his shoulder began to bruise. Those scientists – his tormentors – lying on the other side, looked relieved for a brief moment of time. That was until, he got an idea.

Still hovering in the air, he flew himself back just a little and unleashed a burst after burst of white-energy.

 _CRACK!_ There ran one fissure up the transparent pane.

 _CRACK!_ There ran the fracture through the width of the window.

He could hear the steps of the fleeing researchers, and that only fueled his wrath. Cowards.

The glass shattered suddenly under the pressure and he plopped himself down in the lab, ignoring how the shards cut his feet. Computers, holo-screens, charts – they were all covered by a veneer of ice, thickening by the second. He sniffed contemptuously as he eyed the remaining escapees, considering chasing after them when he saw that there was one who was not fleeing the lab.

The man in the black cloak.

His thin, grey face bore no fear, just curiosity and even amusement, and Jack seethed at that. It was as if the man was just a spectator watching an animal – a caged animal – with the assurance that he himself was in no danger.

Presumptuous old _fool_. For that, he will die.

Jaw tightened, Jack raised his hand towards the leader of his tormentors, hatred and detestation spiking to whole new heights as the storm around raged and his hands crackled with energy.

And then the man finally spoke. It was a word. Just one word.

And just like that, the winter suddenly departed him and he was scratching against his chest, having tumbled to his knees. His body felt oddly frozen and he suddenly felt horrendous cold. His vision blurred as his muscles turned flaccid, and when his body slumped forward, he felt his cheek resting once again on a clear crystal floor. The chain around his neck was choking him and he groaned as he pushed himself off the ground.

He was back again, inside the large crystal room, trapped by his binds of ice and the horrible chill nestling in the core of his chest. His breath misted in the air as he tried to orientate himself.

" _Weak,_ " her mocking voice echoed through the hexagonal hall. A taunting cackled rocketed off the walls, though he could not locate its source. _"Poor, poor Jack."_ He could almost hear her breathe against his ear, though he knew that she wasn't there. _"If there was only someone who loved you."_

Against his bare feet lay a pile of icy shards, so tiny that it resembled powder. Just little over to its left, a wide, circle-shaped expanse, vaguely resembling a lake. Its entire surface was rough and frozen, a glimmering white sheen that was too opaque for him to see through.

He turned back to the pile of icy shards, stacked so high that it looked like a mini mountain in his narrow prison of ice.

" _The task that I had given you had better be completed before I return, or else…"_

He reached out towards the pile of shards, but hissed the minute his finger brushed against it. He drew his hand back towards himself and found that a blob of blood had appeared on his skin, streaking down into a red puddle on the ground. He eyed the glittering heap, sitting so innocently. He bit his lip, and reached once again, more carefully this time as not to cut his hands. He managed to get one of ice shard and he stared down at the flat, frozen surface of lake, his stomach churning uncomfortably as he did. There was no way he was going to able to finish this in time.

When he jerked awake from his strange shimmering dream, he was surprised to find himself not submerged in the water tank, but lying curled up in the floor of narrow, dark cell. It was cramped, such that he couldn't even stretch his legs out across the length of it, but it was better than having to go underwater again.

As he struggled to get himself upright, the boy noticed that set in front of him was a steaming plate, holding upon it a slab of cooked meat. Suspicious, he raised the plate up to his nose, sitting cross-legged as that was the only way he could sit in the cell. It smelled like…steak?

He licked his lips. Before he could stop himself, he had grabbed the piece with his hand and was devouring it ravenously.

Half-way through however, he stopped, for the hairs at the back of his neck had raised themselves. He slowly turned his head up to the top left corner before him. Though he could see nothing there, he had a distinct feeling that there was a camera there, and on the other side of camera were people watching.

He ripped another chunk off with his teeth as he stared at what he could not see, and hoped that they could see the animosity in his clear blue eyes.

~~~0~~~

 **District 13**

A picture speaks a thousand words, so she wondered why she had to talk at all.

The idea, they told her, was they were going to find some way of hacking the Capitol television network. Once they did, they would broadcast a series of anti-Capitol, Pro-rebellion 'propos'.

"Short for Propaganda," it had been explained to her, which made sense in a way. The Capitol's method of flexing its muscle had always been through the media, so they'd strike back by using their own favourite weapon against them.

Before they could air any propos, however, the propos had to be filmed. And the idea had been that the first of the series would be a short clip of her of no longer than 5 seconds. They had a short script of just one line, which had been easily memorised. She was already to perform it.

Except that the directors of this tiny, five second segment couldn't agree on how she should say it.

"She should look enraged, infuriated, and say it like she wants to rip out their eyes and feast on their entrails!" declared the short, stout director, clearly impassioned by his idea. Elsa pulled a face, not that they were really paying attention, nor had she any say.

"Oh, please," the skinny director with dark green hair said, checking her nails as she did. This was probably the tenth time had done that already. "She should say it sort of calm, sort of deadpan. Like with one brow cocked and she can roll her eyes too. Everything in her should scream _'I'm so done with the Capitol, and you should be too, so join the Rebellion and all that."_ She stretched out her fingers and studied them from a distance, before curling them in front her face and scrutinising them more carefully."

"Err, guys?" the timid one of the trio interjected, a slight stutter in his voice as he spoke. "I think we should express a bit more caution in the way we say it? I mean, we want people to get excited about the rebellion and get riled against the Capitol, but we don't want them to go crazy and start burning down Capitol buildings." This earned him long looks from the two other directors. "Okay, maybe we want them to start burning stuff, but not all at once with no clear leadership?"

"I say we stop talking and start filming!" the small, ill-tempered one growled. "We can edit everything else in post-production."

"Nu-uh," the lady director objected. "If we wanna get the tone right, we need to set the direction from the front."

"Oh, dear." Was the timid one's teeth actually chattering? "I think these propos are just gonna fall apart."

Elsa just dropped her head in her hands, and thus messed up the hard work that her make-up artists had put into her intricate bun to waste. The directors didn't even notice because they were too distracted.

By dinner time, zero filming had been done and Elsa couldn't help but feel that she would have better spent her time washing dishes. As she spooned some of the mash on her tray into her mouth, she wondered what was going on in Calhoun's mind assigning her to this task. Sure, she was willing to be a symbol for the Rebellion, but – well! There ought to be a more efficient way than this.

"You're not looking too hot," was the greeting she received from Hiccup as he sat down across her. Noting her dry look at him, he said with a chuckle, "Sorry, couldn't resist the pun. But you do look a little out of it."

She let out a huff of exasperation. "It's nothing really. Just frustrated by my superiors, that's all."

"I feel you." Hiccup nodded. "There are always these guys who come interrupt the work that Valka and I are doing. Super annoying."

It was kind of their thing now to sit at the back table of the canteen – _'their'_ meaning herself, Hiccup and Ralph. Sometimes Hiro dropped by, but that had only happened once or twice. For such a young boy, he was constantly at work. Well, no one of any age was excused from work in District 13, nor should they be, with a war coming. The girl from District 5 was never to be seen. By herself, at least, since Ralph did occasionally provide updates about her, which meant that the fearsome archer was around somewhere.

Speaking of the giant hunk of a boy from District 11, he was in quite a thoughtful mood as he set his own tray down by those of his dinner-mates, but he said it was nothing when Hiccup inquired why. It wasn't really all that surprising for them to be closed-lipped about work, because all their assignments were of largely confidential nature. But most of the time, they liked to share the bare bones at least, like how they felt and how much they loved or hated the task of the day. It was odd of Ralph not to say anything, when he seemed so exhausted from his training today.

It was only after the gangly young lad had departed did Ralph speak. As he did, he leaned towards her, almost overturning the table in his anxiousness. "Hey," his tone was low, like he didn't want to be overheard. "You're from District 12, right?"

She nodded, puzzled. It should have been very well known the district of her origin. After all, wasn't _'The Snow Queen'_ title tagged next to the _'of District 12'_ lineall the time?

"Just checking." Ralph seemed to have read her mind. He was glancing about the barracks canteen in a rather suspicious manner. "I was wondering – well, I dunno, but -"

The more he spoke, the more perplexed Elsa became. "What is it?"

"It's just, well,-" he scratched his head "-okay, I'm not really supposed to talk about this, but there's this guy – a new refugee – who's come in from District 12. He's not exactly in the best state of mind, but he's being fixed up. Just wondered if you knew him, you know, since your district's pretty small after all."

The second he said 'District 12' her interest was piqued. From her short time in District 13, she had not encountered anyone from her old district and had pretty much concluded that no one in there had known anything about District 13, or the Rebellion. Apparently, she had been proven wrong.

"Do you know his name?" Her soft voice matched his own.

"It was pretty tricky." Ralph made a face. "Like Chris? Christopher? No, not that. It's like a shorter version of Christopher, like Christo, or something."

Her jaw fell open. "Wait – Kristoff?"

"Yeah." The big guy beamed. "Yeah, that's the name. Kris-hoff. Roff. Toff. Whatever."

"I know him," she gasped, her eyes huge and her heart racing. Turning to the soldier, Elsa asked, "Could you let me see him?" She noted his hesitation, so she added, "Please, Ralph. It'd mean a lot to me if you did."

He seemed reluctant, let out an uneasy exhale. Her pleading expression must have done something, though, for he eventually sighed and answered, "Alright, but you'll have to meet me at the infirmary at tonight, during reflections period."

She nodded.

At 2200, she snuck out of her sleeping chambers – still the cryo-proofed rooms as before – and headed down the infirmary. If anyone caught her along the way, her excuse would be a vicious headache. All the same, she avoided people. She didn't want to accidentally get Ralph into trouble when he was doing her such a huge favour.

When she entered the infirmary, she was glad to find most of the patients were already sleeping and the number of staff thinned considerably for the night shift. She moved quietly past the beds, glad that her ice-cape was handy in dulling the gleam of her body suit. She didn't want call any unnecessary attention to herself.

She found Ralph waiting for her at the entrance to the isolation rooms. Those needed special codes for access. Fortunately, the large boy possessed them, being one of the guards stationed in the area, so he took them through without any fuss.

When she passed the dark-lit rooms, Elsa couldn't help but feel an odd sense of déjà vu. She wondered if this was the place that she had been treated for her injuries after coming out of the Games. What havoc she must have wreaked.

"Here's the one," Ralph said finally, drawing up to one of the doors that looked identical to rest. He glanced at her. "You ready?"

She swallowed before nodding.

Ralph placed his hand on the keypad, and then door slid open. Elsa threaded slowly into the room, gazing down on the battered, bruised patient. He was hooked up to more tubes than she had ever seen in her life, to the point that it was a bit difficult to weave her way around them. The injuries and bandages had changed his appearance, but there was enough of the original for her to know for sure.

His eyes were closed and his body was slumped back against the bed. Part of her told her that she should leave him to rest, but the loneliness she had felt back when confined in the thermostatic enclosure returned. Even the metal suit that allowed her to access the outside world had been suffocating as of late. She was eager to have a slice of the past, even if just be in the form of wounded old friend.

She took one of his rough hands in between her metal-laced one's and called gently, "Kristoff?"

The boy stirred and gradually, his eyes did open themselves. They only got wider when they fell upon her, where even in shiny suit, her yellow-gold braid was unmistakable. "Elsa?" He tried to sit up and she reached out to help him. "But…you're…you can't-"

"I'm not dead," she assured him, chuckling a little at his bewilderment. "What happened in the Arena was a cover-up. The rebellion helped us escape." She nodded at the big blocky boy watching behind. "Ralph's one of us too."

"But how?" Kristoff's eyes dropped down to her metal gauntlets. "And your hands! They're all – what's wrong with them?"

"It's just a covering. Underneath I'm still all skin and bones," she told him lightly. There was a joy in her that she couldn't express at the sight of a familiar face, and she felt like she could hug the boy if he didn't seem so fragile right now.

A rather important thought suddenly came to mind and Elsa drew herself nearer to the blonde boy. "Kristoff." Her voice was thick with worry, squeezing his hand unconsciously as she did. "Where's Anna?"

~~~0~~~

She cast a suspicious glance towards the robot, then down to its owner. "This automaton was not granted access into these labs."

"Baymax needs to accompany me twenty-four-seven. Doctor's orders," the boy in the chair insisted. "It wouldn't be very helpful if I fainted again, would it?"

The lieutenant didn't like the answer, but grudgingly, she supposed it was better than introducing another human into the labs.

" _I am equipped with many life-saving programmes,_ " the bloated white monstrosity informed her in a pleasant, artificial tone, " _such as Defibrillation, Epinephrine Injection, Wound-dressing and Breathing Exercises."_ Its perfectly circular eyes blink themselves into a straight line, before opening towards her again. _"Would you like a demonstration?"_

"No," Calhoun answered sharply. She never did like mechanical creatures, not even back in the Capitol. There was some about artificial intelligence that rubbed her the wrong way.

The robot, unfortunately did not seem offended.

The lieutenant tossed her pale fringe from her eyes, sniffing warily as she spoke to the young engineer, "Keep your marshmallow in line and clear his memory banks prior to leaving this lab."

"Yes, m'am," Hiro answered, but his attention was no longer on her. His head was dipped down towards the screen before him, where dozens of red squares were on display before them.

"We're starting in five," another technician across the lab yelled. Everyone was already hunched over their seats, bodies curved towards their respective devices, be them wires, holo-computers, tablets.

The teenager seated next to her grabbed his earphones and shoved them over his spikey-head.

"Hypnos terminal fully-charged," someone in the far end of room called out.

"Power-receptors are online and ready to bust," another added.

"We trigger the sync on my mark," Hiro ordered through his mike. His hand was poised over a virtual control projected by his holo-screen. Calhoun didn't know what it was, because the boy didn't tell her and frankly, she didn't care as long as it worked. She straightened her posture, lifted her chin high and continued her observation of proceedings with a cool expression. Inwardly, her heart clenched.

If this didn't work and the Capitol caught wind, it might be the end of the Rebellion, and every before it started.

"5,4-"

Her fist clenched by her side.

"-3,2-"

The tension was so thick one could slice it.

"-1."

 _Hroooommm!_

 _Zhrrraaannnggg!_

The sync had gone live.

Silence reigned over the lab as the researchers, technicians and engineers stared at their devices with bated breath; praying that the program didn't collapse on itself. And if didn't collapse, that it would be strong enough to fly across the country to the Capitol. And if did reach the Capitol, that it would break through navigate the Capitol's extensive virtual network successfully. And if it did navigate it successfully, that it would succeed in breaking through the firewalls. And if it did break through the firewalls, that it wouldn't sound of any alarms, and the Capitol wouldn't notice. And if the Capitol didn't notice, that it would latch onto the core memory of the Capitol, replicate it, and send all of its information right back to District 13 – in real time.

They waited. And they waited.

And after a while, the various researchers, technicians and engineers stopped staring at their own readings and opted instead to stare at their young leader, situated on the raised dais above them. His own eyes were glued to his holo-projector, fixed upon the stubborn squares of red glaring back at him. His thin face was pinched and his jaw was clenched as he waited.

And he waited.

" _Your heart rate has accelerated abruptly,"_ the robots told him, his normally soft voice echoing throughout the still environment. _"I will scan you for the cause now."_ A second later. _"Scan complete. There are raised levels of adrenaline in your system, though a physiological cause seems unlikely due to the lack of trauma or deterioration in your current condition. Shall I-"_

"Shush, Baymax," was the boy's curt interjection as he continued to look intently before at the screen. "Not now."

The automaton fortunately knew how to follow orders. Otherwise, Calhoun would have blasted the voice box off that unnaturally poofy creation. Her own nerves were strung tight as they were.

The wave of red over the screen blared to their faces as the progress bar in the corner of the screen continued to displaying wavy lines – still loading. Not a tap of a foot, nor a huff of a breath, nor the flit of a blink, was heard.

They waited.

And waited.

And then suddenly! One of the boxes turned green.

The collective gasp echoed, but then was hushed as all noted that it was the only one that turned. In the sea of red boxes – still unconnected regions of the Capitol network – it still meant nothing.

The boy bit his lip so hard that it began to bleed. It was a wonder that the nurse robot failed to comment on it.

Then suddenly, another box became green.

And another. And another. And yet another! And then suddenly, the crimson wall was sheathed by an emerald hue, and cries of surprise rang out as the entire image before Hiro was washed in green. Only green.

There was a leap to the feet. There was a punch in the air. "It's through!"

"It's through!" someone echoed.

"We're through!"

"We're in the Capitol!"

"WE'VE DONE IT!"

Triumph resounded through the lab. Hands were clasped and congratulations were exchanged. The boy removed the headphones over his head and sighed. His heart rate had decreased, his robot companion informed him, and he just smiled tiredly as leaned back into his chair.

The only one who was not caught in the wind of success was the lieutenant. Her eyes were narrowed as she bellowed, "GET A GRIP ON YOURSELVES, YOU PUNY MUD MELONS!"

The stunned crowd whipped toward the military official, who's fearsome expression melts the sweetness of victory instantly.

"We haven't tested it yet," Calhoun growled through grit-teeth. She turned expectantly towards the young programmer. "Search for something on the network. Something classified."

The boy blinked at her request, then began to ponder. He then pulled up the interface for his holo-computer. Typing rapidly into it, his request was processed by his programme, which started emitting a faint hum.

A pile of photographs to appear on the holographic screen, of a man with greyed hair and long prominent nose. A number of research papers began to open up along the screen as well, with some images of strange-looking designs, odd photographs, a number of official documents and coded text.

Calhoun breathed out the name as she realised what Hiro had typed. "Robert Callaghan."

The boy nodded.

The last of the 'Guardians' of Panem to die other than Lotso, whose fate had always been a closely guarded secret. While history texts would tell of how Panem's robotic pioneer had passed away peacefully from old age, Calhoun had discovered during her tenure as the Head of the Capitol's Underground that the truth wasn't the slightest bit close. Due to his connections with Panem's original founder, Callaghan had the capability and standing to lead Panem as much as Lotso did. If Lotso had wanted the power consolidated in his hands and his alone, steps had to be taken to ensure that Callaghan would never be able to amass any political support for himself. So he had the scientist spirited away to a secret location, where he would live in total luxury and under total supervision – a comfortable prison, in a sense.

She had never been able to find out what happened to him, not even as the Head of the Undergrounds. The secret had been too close to President Lotso' heart for such ready access. According to these files that Hamada had produced, though, it appeared that confinement had driven the man to madness and he had committed suicide - by ingesting a tube of his own created nanites.

"It seems that your project is indeed a success, Soldier Hamada," she told the boy at last. There was only the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of her lip. "Well done."

The boy didn't smile back. He only nodded in thanks, before turning to his robot companion. The huggable marshmallow man then proceeded to examine the bleeding on his lip, much to the young genius' chagrin.

On hearing her statement, the other staff resumed their celebration, some even dancing on the steps in their elation. Calhoun allowed them the shedding of decorum just for now. Come tomorrow, she expected everyone to be the epitome of professionalism once more.

She had no intention of joining the festivities, so she headed out of the lab, fully intending to report the progress to the President. With the hacking of the Capitol's network complete, and the Capitol still in the dark of their deed, no doubt now was the optimum time to operate. After their prime operator in the Districts, Man-in-the-Moon, dead, and the status of 'Wild Card' unknown, this might be their only shot.

Her way was however interrupted by a uniformed subordinate, who saluted her and said, "M'am, there's someone who wants to see you desperately and it cannot wait."

"Is it the President?"

"Uh, no, but-"

"Then it can wait," was Calhoun's crisp answer as she took a turn down the corner –

-and ran straight into the armoured form that was the Snow Queen herself.

The girl seemed pale - paler than her frost-skinned self usually was. She was trembling even, and her metal-laced fingers were clenched into fists. She was glaring at Calhoun.

"Soldier Arendelle," the Lieutenant greeted with a wary frown as she appraised the one in question. "You seem troubled."

"Lieutenant," the mutant spat out, not the slightest smidgen of respect. Not even a salute. Shameful. "You lied to me."

Calhoun's face was unreadable. "Perhaps you would like to be more specific."

"You told me-" her voice was shaking, but not with fear. No, no, there was agitation, _rage_ "-you promised that in exchange of me being your _'Snow Queen'_ , my sister would be protected

and brought to District 13 at the earliest opportunity."

She nodded slowly as her hand went furtively to her holster.

"So, then." Elsa's eyes flashed viciously. "Why wasn't I told that my sister had been _taken captive_ by _the Capitol itself?"_

"Millions of innocents have been taken captive by the Capitol before, Soldier Arendelle," Calhoun replied in coolly, undo the lock that held her gun in place, all while pretending she was just placing her hand on her hip. "If we strove to inform all their relations about it, it would be a waste of resources and manpower." She pushed past the girl roughly. "Now, excuse me. I have work to do."

"NO!"

The temperature of the hallway took an unexpected plummet, and all in the vicinity paused from their activity just to notice such. That included the lieutenant, who cautiously spun herself around to face the blonde teenager. Her two hands were clenched by her side, a blue luminosity surrounding them.

Through halting breaths, the girl said – or rather demanded, "You said that you would keep my sister safe. You have to rescue her."

"Rescue her?" Calhoun repeated, with a disgusted expression. Her finger was curled around the trigger now. "From the Capitol? Are you mad? Do you know how much resources that would take? Not to mention the risks?"

"You said that you would keep her safe," Elsa demanded stubbornly, her foot pressed firmly on the ground. Whether it was intentional or not, there was a growing patch of ice around it. "Or perhaps you had never planned on fulfilling my conditions."

The Lieutenant's face hardened. She didn't to do it; use a firearm against a subordinate, even less the 'Snow Queen'. For all her contributions to District 13, Calhoun's loyalty was still being questioned constantly. After all, she had fought so valiantly against them once. She couldn't afford such a scandal attached to her name, not in times like these. "We are in a time of war, Soldier. Perhaps if you look above your own selfish desires, you'd realise that a squad of highly-trained soldiers - with their own loved ones – is not worth the possible survival of a civilian who has no use pertaining to the progress of the Rebellion."

The girl's mouth opened to argue, but she stopped short. "What do you mean," she asked stiffly, " _'possible survival'_?"

"There's nothing that the Capitol could possibly want from your sister," Calhoun informed her, straightforward without filter. "There's no reason that they'd keep her alive."

The very thought of that seemed to have stricken the young mutant rather hard. Her anger warped into denial. "But-but-" she scrunched her face up "-it can't be. It can't be. They wouldn't – they won't-"

"I know the Capitol. I know what they do." It was harsh, but it was necessary. The District 12 girl needed to snap out of it. They were at war, for heavens' sake! Now was not the time for irrational behaviour. She was a harsh woman, but she didn't want to shoot the girl. Better a cruel word than a bullet. "Your sister never stood a chance."

Those words seemed to have broken through the girl, but it was not the way that the Lieutenant wanted. The sapphire blue orbs darted to her, piercing her, and then the girl raised her arm. "No."

"No?" Calhoun repeated, bemused.

The temperature fell further, sending a shiver down the Lieutenant's spine. "We are saving my sister, like you agreed before."

"She's de-"

"She's not!" The burst of a shout felt like a puff of wind, and it was icy. The armour over the girl's form was rattling as she hissed, "Until I find her body myself, Anna's not dead. So either you help me save her, or I swear to you, _I will bring down the very roof of this hallway down on our_ -"

The revolver was just inches out of the holster when Elsa was cut off abruptly by the fizzling of electricity. A shriek of shock was heard, and indeed, shocked the girl was by her own armour.

In a second, her unexpected spasms came to a halt. The girl crumbled to the ground, out cold. Ironically, that took the cold away, and soon the hallway had returned to normal temperatures.

Calhoun glanced down to the entrance of the labs, where the wheelchair carrying the tech prodigy sat. The young genius had a small remote in his hand when he gazed regretfully down to the girl. He let out a long sigh. "Sorry about that."

The unconscious form didn't respond.

The Lieutenant let out a contemptuous sniff. "I thought you said the suit could contain her powers."

"It helps align her powers more with her logical thought than her emotions," Hiro corrected her, slotting the small device back into the wrist-band like device on his arm. "It doesn't stop her from translating her emotions into logical thought."

Calhoun had no idea what he was saying, and frankly, she didn't care. To two soldiers standing guard – useless, they had been – she ordered, "Take her to the detention centre. Ensure that it's fit to contain her."

"Yes, m'am." The two subordinates hurried over to the limp form on the ground, prepared to scoop the armoured arms over their own.

The Lieutenant then swept around, pace quick as she made it for her next destination. There was a war coming around, and it did not like to be kept waiting.

~~~0~~~

 **S/N:**

 **It's kind of weird that when I started the first Guardian Games, Rapunzel's parents didn't even have names yet. Now, after Tangled: The Series, they do. So weird.**

 **The directors of Elsa's 'propos' are a cameo of another set of characters from another movie that had been cameoed here before. Have fun guessing.**

 **If you find Jack's portion confusing, well, I can only tell you that Jack does too. That and I'm a pretty eh writer. So, yeah.**

 **When it comes to Anna, Elsa is not very rational.**

 **~~~0~~~**

 **A/N:**

 **Hi everyone. Long time no see.**

 **Just want to let you guys know that I've all your reviews, and I appreciate them loads even if I haven't managed to reply the reviews like I used to do. It's nice to know that some people read this even though it's been hard for me to update it. Partly writer's block, partly from life. Still, if you're still around, just want to let you know that it makes me glad that you're still here. If you ain't, then, well, you won't see this anyway.**

 **Anyway, since I've been getting really busy recently, I don't think I'll be able to answer reviews individually anymore, but do know that every little notes left behind is still appreciated greatly all the same, and believe it or not, has some factor to motivating me to update (so you can thank that random Guest from Jan 27).**

 **Also, you may notice that the formatting for this chapter may be a little different from before. Why? Because I'm too lazy to keep editing the formatting anymore. If you didn't notice anything, then all is weeeeeellllllll.**

 **Byeeeeeeeeee.**


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